


The Opinions of Sheep

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Brienne is a 90s YA protagonist, Enjoy my dialogue-heavy writing style, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jaime Lannister's strong little spoon energy, Jaime and Brienne and a gaggle of wayward children, Knight Brienne of Tarth, Mild Kink, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Selwyn Tarth is the feminist father Westeros deserves, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Westeros is ten percent more friendly than canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-07-26 00:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 79,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20035132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: Before he returned to Tarth, her father placed his large, weathered hands on her shoulders. “They’ll try and discourage you,” he said, “but you’re my daughter, so you won’t let them succeed.”Brienne of Tarth is the first girl to enroll in the King's Landing Knight Academy and, due to Tywin Lannister's influence, ends up Jaime Lannister's squire in an attempt to embarrass him into quitting the Kingsguard. It doesnotgo as planned. A Tamora Pierce'sProtector of the Smallfusion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the longest writing endeavor of my life. This is decidedly more book canon because who can resist consistent characterization and book Jaime's golden princess hair? Although, I have borrowed shamelessly from show canon when it suits my needs. I think my characterization lands somewhere in the middle. This starts roughly a year before _A Game of Thrones_, although the timeline gets muddled after that.
> 
> Growing up in the 90s and loving to read, Tamora Pierce was (and still is) a huge influence for me, so I paid her homage by turning Brienne into a 90s YA protagonist. Westeros has been adjusted accordingly, which mostly means it's 10% more friendly, and Selwyn Tarth is comically feminist for the setting. 
> 
> I've borrowed the process of becoming a knight from Pierce's _Protector of the Small_ series. Basically children enroll as pages, where they spend a couple years in a more formal class setting before becoming squires. I've left the actual knighting of the squire up to the knight they serve for Plot Reasons. Brienne, and the sexism and discrimination she faces, reminds me _so_ much of Kel that I couldn't resist smashing the canons together.
> 
> The title comes from Tywin's line “a lion doesn't concern itself with the opinion of sheep,” which gets used in ways Tywin would _definitely_ not approve of throughout the story. 
> 
> This fic is complete, barring minor revisions, and sits at 18 chapters and 75k words. I aim to update twice a week. A HUGE thanks to [extra_credit]() for the fact that this even _has_ a coherent plot and isn't filled with typos, and to [Haicrescendo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/profile) for beta reading. Both of them listened to me scream about this at all hours of the day and night for the last two months. Left to my own devices, I can only write smut and jokes about Jaime being a damsel in distress. 🤷

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do you know who it is?” Cersei snatches the note from him, pulling him from his thoughts. She uncurls the parchment again, holding it in her elegant fingers. She reads further than Jaime had and starts laughing again. “Brienne of Tarth.”_
> 
> _Jaime’s mind blanks completely, “Who of where?”_

Brienne's trunk is upended, her belongings strewn about the wooden floor of her dormitory. She sighs, kneeling down and refolding her clothes. One of her tunics is ripped, a jagged gash along the back that she won't be able to sew in any way that looks presentable. Not that she's ever been able to sew _ anything _in a way that's presentable; she’ll have to send it out.

In the four years since Brienne arrived in King's Landing, the bullying has lessened. Her peers have grown to tolerate her; or, it’s the simple knowledge that she’s bigger than most of them and hits twice as hard. Brienne doesn’t much care either way, as long as they leave her alone. The only one of her peers that she _ might _ be able call a friend is Loras Tyrell.

Word spreads quickly when she breaks the nose of Edmund Ambrose when he rifles through her things in her third month as a page. “I was just trying to prove you had a cunt between your legs,” he tells her; at least that’s what Brienne _ thinks _ he says--it was hard to tell when he was aggressively bleeding from his face.

It doesn’t stop the vandalism, but it slows it, and as long as she guards her things, it’s manageable. The damage is her fault, really, for not locking her door in her rush to leave that morning. Any of the other seven pages who share the hallway with her could have come into her room. Brienne can make a guess--Ben Bushy comes to mind. It’s not Hyle Hunt, even though she dislikes him intensely; they have a truce of sorts.

Hyle was the ringleader of the betting pool about who would take her virginity. _ That’s _ the first thing that made her cry, if only because he had been kind to her, bringing her gifts as part of his strategy to win the bet. Looking back, it was utterly foolish of her to believe a single word out of Hyle’s mouth.

He’d apologized, a few months ago, but Brienne still wanted nothing to do with him.

Brienne sits on her bed once her trunk is righted and stares out the window. She's _ close_, so close to her dream, and she can weather anything to make it happen. Once she's a knight, she can leave King's Landing--she can go home, or anywhere she wants.

Before he returned to Tarth, her father placed his large, weathered hands on her shoulders. “They’ll try and discourage you,” he said, “but you’re my daughter, so you won’t let them succeed.”

Brienne had done her best to live up to that.

She only needs to squire for someone first. Even that is exciting--she can leave the capital, move out of this cramped room, and protect those less fortunate. Brienne hopes they put her with Ser Barristan, the commander of the Kingsguard, and one of the only knights to think her worthy of her presence here. 

It's not to be, though--when they're paired up later that afternoon, Brienne learns she's to squire for Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

Brienne takes it as yet another sign they want her to give up. That just means they don’t know her very well.

* * *

“Training a _ squire_?”

Cersei laughs as Jaime reads the note, delivered to him as they walk through one of the palace's many gardens. They have to be careful where and how they interact--Robert is off hunting again, and Jaime covets the scraps of alone time he gets with his sister. She looks beautiful today, golden hair falling in waves, and Jaime has to stop himself from reaching for her.

“I don’t have time for a _ fucking _ squire.”

“Don’t you, though?” Cersei counters, and Jaime supposes she has a point. The city is peaceful--Robert Baratheon is a philanderer and a drunkard, but the Small Council runs things with relative stability. “I can’t have you following at my heels, anyway. People will notice.”

“I suppose it _ would _occupy my time.”

There’s a reckless part of Jaime that _ wants _ people to notice, wants Cersei to _ claim _ him. He wants the same, impossible things he’s always wanted--to not have to steal away in the middle of the night, to not have the looming threat of the king finding out. Not that Robert pays Cersei much mind, regardless; he’s too busy drinking and fucking whores.

“Do you know who it is?” Cersei snatches the note from him, pulling him from his thoughts. She uncurls the parchment again, holding it in her elegant fingers. She reads further than Jaime had and starts laughing again. “Brienne of Tarth.”

Jaime’s mind blanks completely, “Who of _ where_?”

Cersei’s laughter turns to outright cackling, “You don’t know of her?”

“No. Should I?”

“The _ girl _ ,” Cersei repeats, “if you can call her that--she’s huge, and _ hideous_. How could you have missed her?”

Jaime takes the parchment from her and scowls at the letters--this arrangement has Tywin Lannister written _ all _over it. He could fuck Jaime over all the way from Casterly Rock.

* * *

Loras Tyrell knocks on her door after dinner the next evening. When Brienne hears the knock, she’s reluctant to answer it at all.

“So,” Loras opens with, leaning on her door frame, “the Kingslayer.”

“If you’re going to be rude, go away.” 

Loras laughs, “Can’t a friend commiserate, Lady Brienne?”

Brienne doesn’t _ dislike _ Loras, but she’s unsure if she’d befriend him if they met in any other context. He has a high-born vanity to him that she doesn't like. They are the odd two amongst their peers, and that creates an bond, unwilling or otherwise. Loras is the object of nearly as much scorn as she is. Brienne has never directly asked him if there’s truth to rumors that he prefers the company of men, specifically Renly Baratheon; their classmates certainly seem to _ think _there’s veracity to them.

“Someone wants me to quit,” she replies dryly.

“_Someone _ hasn’t been on the receiving end of your lance during a joust.”

She remembers, fondly, how Loras went sailing off his horse and into the dirt. Then, she’d repeated the process with Hyle _ and _ Edmund.

“It could be worse,” Brienne sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, “at least he’s skilled.”

“True,” Loras answers, “you could be paired with Gregor Clegane or something.”

* * *

Squire to the youngest person ever sworn into the Kingsguard _ should _ be a coveted position, reserved for one particularly gifted with the sword, or, more likely, one whose father has particularly deep pockets. When Jaime meets the girl who’s to be his squire in the training yard the next morning, if confirms what he’d been thinking since reading the assignment--this arrangement is _ punishment_, for both of them.

Jaime isn’t sure what to expect from Brienne of Tarth. What kind of father lets his only daughter, and _ heir_, come to King’s Landing alone to be a fucking _ knight_? Everyone still found the concept of a woman being a knight an amusing jest. In the years since the law changed, this Brienne of Tarth is the first, and _ only_, girl to enroll. 

Then, Jaime sees her for the first time, and she might be the most ridiculous combination of traits he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth,” he says to her, if only to stall as he tries to figure out how the fuck to process what he’s seeing. The girl in front of him is _ huge_, half a head taller than him. There’s nothing ladylike about her--she’s built like a man, stocky and broad-shouldered, and her straw-blonde looks like she can manage nothing with it except letting it hang at her shoulders.

Does he shake her hand? Or bow and kiss it like he would any other lady?

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” Brienne of Tarth replies, “the Kingslayer.”

_ Ah, so we’re going there already. _

“The one and only.”

Really, though, Jaime doesn’t even bristle at the epithet anymore; nearly fifteen years of being called it daily rendered him mostly immune. It’s not like it isn’t _ true _ , even though Robert Baratheon never thanked him for making his rebellion an inadvertent success once his fat ass sat on the throne. And, sometimes, it’s easier to _ be _ who people believe him to be. Swimming upstream against it was exhausting.

Brienne bows like a man would, and Jaime holds out a hand to her when she rises. He can’t imagine her attempting a gentle curtsy like Cersei. Brienne’s grip is strong enough that Jaime thinks she could break his fingers if she put her mind to it. She’s closer, now, and he decides she’s not _ completely _without charm--her blue eyes are beautiful. She looks young, more noticeable now that she's closer; he heard she was nearly ten and eight.

“Tarth,” Jaime starts, once he realizes Brienne is watching him silently. “The Sapphire Isle, named for the water around it. Quartered moon and sun on the banner. The lord is your father, Selwyn Tarth.”

“You must have listened to your maester as a child.”

_ Is she being sarcastic? _

“And you’re his heir and only daughter,” Jaime continues, “yet, he let you come here. Lord Selwyn sounds like an interesting man. Has he not tried to find a suitable match for you?”

None of this is _ any _ of Jaime’s business, but the girl is such a spectacle that he can’t stop himself from inquiring.

“My father has...attempted to find an appropriate match for me,” Brienne starts. She’s looking at the ground, now. “He gave up after the third attempt. The man couldn’t best me in combat, so I refused. He left Tarth with broken ribs.”

She sounds fucking _ proud_, and Jaime starts laughing.

“Lady Brienne, are you _ sure _ you’re a woman?”

Jaime doesn’t mean the teasing in earnest; Brienne is homely, and _ tall_, but there’s no mistaking her gender. She makes eye contact this time, blushing--it’s not the pretty blush of a maiden, either; her freckled cheeks are blotchy, and she's glaring.

“Ser, I don’t need to be beautiful to wield a sword.”

“Really?” Jaime grins, “I always found that it helps a bit.”

* * *

Kingslayer or no, training with Jaime is exhilarating. He’s _ good_, every bit as much as she’d heard he was. They’re well-matched; Brienne has never fought someone better than her, used to outclassing her peers in the training yard. People underestimate her, and she continually uses it to her advantage.

Brienne might be able to actually _ learn _ something from the Kingslayer if he’d stop fucking talking.

“It’s _ constant_,” she tells Loras, “it’s not criticism or instruction, either; it’s _ nonsense_, like he blurts whatever thought comes into his golden, arrogant head.”

“Tell me more about these suitors,” Jaime asks her on the second day, sword held out in front of him.

“Is this really relevant, ser?”

“No, but I’m curious.”

Brienne doesn’t want to talk about this, especially not with Jaime Lannister. He couldn’t understand the _ shame _ of being paraded around and made to be something he isn’t.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she starts, adjusting the grip on the hilt of her sword, “The first died when I was a girl. The second...told me I was so unfortunate looking that he never wanted to see me again.”

“Well, he sounds like a cunt.”

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky my father gave up and let me come here.”

“So you could squire for the Kingslayer?”

“So I could be a knight.”

* * *

When Brienne was twelve, Renly Baratheon visited Tarth. He danced with her--the first person not to openly mock her for her stature or lack of social graces. He danced with her like she was a proper lady, and not _ whatever _ she was. Brienne fell in love with Renly that day; he was a paramount example of the type of lord she daydreamed of pledging her service to--gracious and forthright, even if it was only courtesy.

The whole thing seems childishly naive to her, now, especially as she watches Jaime. He _ looks _ the part of a knight, and her impression of _ that _ aspect of him only improves as the days pass. Brienne thought Renly an ideal of his station, but Jaime surpasses even that. The white Kingsguard armor becomes him, whether he dons the white cloak or Lannister red and gold. He's handsome, too, almost painfully so, with his golden hair and green eyes, and it fills Brienne with a petulant sort of envy. She's more at ease in armor than dresses, but even with _ ser _ in before her name, she will never look like _ that_. 

It's such a shame, then, that Jaime Lannister is the _ Kingslayer_, an oathbreaker of the highest degree. Brienne respects his martial prowess, but even as he dazzles her, sword gleaming in the sunlight, he's the faulty logic of her childhood optimism made manifest.

_ Looking _ like a knight isn't the same as _ being _one.

Practically, though, the worst part about Jaime is the fact that he _ never _stops talking. As he's teaching her, as they're making rounds, as they're guarding visiting dignitaries, as they're maintaining their weapons and armor, his voice is a constant. 

“Wench,” he calls to her one day in the armory, “hand me that cloth.”

Brienne ignores him because she has a _ name _. She doesn't even spare a glance to him, confident that he won't punish her for her impudence. 

“Brienne the Beauty,” he tries again, clearly amused. She wishes he'd never learned _ that _ nickname for her. It's worse than wench, so she ignores him again.

“Lady Brienne.”

At the third attempt, Brienne turns around and throws the polishing cloth at Jaime's head. It smacks him in the face, but he catches it as it falls. 

“Do you not enjoy your nicknames?” 

“Do you not enjoy _ silence_?”

Brienne knows herself to be fairly reticent, and she knows she lacks wit, so she can't hope to keep pace with Jaime. Two months pass, and most of the time Brienne just lets Jaime babble at her. There's no malice behind his teasing, even the japes at her appearance or lack of femininity are good natured. He asks her questions about Tarth, or her father, and, eventually, why she wanted to be a knight in the first place.

“Renly Baratheon visited Tarth when was I was a girl,” Brienne starts, unsure of why she's revealing this--it's ripe with potential for mocking. “He saw me practicing with our master-of-arms, and told me the law had changed to allow women.”

Brienne must be blushing because Jaime grins at her and says, “If your maidenly affections are set on Renly Baratheon, you will find him a hard catch. I hear he prefers the company of men.”

The company of Loras Tyrell, specifically.

Her face heats up _ more_, if such a feat is even possible. “I _ know_. It's not like that anymore.”

“You're _ already _more skilled with a sword than he is. And, no, I don't mean that as a euphemism.”

There are questions Brienne want to ask Jaime, but none of them seem appropriate. She wants to ask him about Aerys because for all his arrogant bluster and sarcasm, he doesn't _ seem _ like a person who would do what he did without reason. Brienne also starts to wonder if Jaime is lonely; he's never with anyone other than his sister, and he never talks about anyone other than his younger brother Tyrion. He also doesn't seem to interact with other members of the Kingsguard beyond what is needed to perform his duty.

And slowly, like water wearing away at a rock, Brienne finds that she actually _ enjoys _ their time together.

* * *

It's not often that Cersei knocks on the door of his chambers. Siblings spending time together isn't inherently strange, but she can’t show up too often, or at the wrong time, or stay too long. Tonight, she's smiling when he opens the door, and for a moment Jaime is transported to when Cersei would sneak to his room in the moonlight, and grace him with her wicked, mischievous smile. He loved her, in those moments, in the cloistered world they created. 

It's not so simple between them, now.

“Have you heard Brienne the Beauty's newest nickname?” Cersei opens with when Jaime lets her in the door. There's something ominous in her tone, and he can smell wine on her breath; she's been drinking a lot these past months. 

“I don't make a habit of listening to rumors,” Jaime replies. He's the subject of so many, he'd go mad if he tried to keep up with them.

“They call that cow the 'Kingslayer's Whore.’” Jaime tenses, and of course Cersei notices. “I'd be disgusted by the association as well. As if anyone would _ actually _deign to--”

“That's not it,” Jaime interrupts.

“Don't tell me you _ like _ her? I don't even know how you stand to look at her.”

“I _ do _like her,” Jaime blurts, and immediately comes to regret it. He's too honest, sometimes, and he has none of Cersei's sense for duplicity or nuance. “She's kind,” he continues because if he's digging a hole, he might as well bury himself. “And you should see her with a sword. She'll be better than me.”

_ She already is, sometimes. _

Cersei's green eyes take on a cruel glint. “You're fine with beating beaten by _ that_?” 

“She's not my opponent. And she _ is _ a lady, so she deserves that respect.”

Jaime can't figure out the meaning behind Cersei's expression, unsettling because her face is a mirror of his own, and he's _ always _ been able to read her. She kisses him, his face caged between her hands, and Jaime follows her lead, as he always has. Her perfumed scent intoxicates him, and he realizes with a tiny thrill that Cersei _ left the door open. _

“Enjoy your ugly pet,” she whispers into his ear, after, “But remember, brother, that _ we _belong together.”

* * *

Brienne's not an eavesdropper, but she can't help but hear when Jaime's left the door to his chamber wide open, and neither he nor Cersei are terribly quiet. 

_ The Kingslayer's Whore. _

She flinches when Cersei says the epithet. It's been circling for _ weeks_, but Brienne is largely able to ignore the whispers of her peers. Loras told her of it, as if to warn her, which was kind. She sort of hoped Jaime wouldn't find out. Being a squire removed most of her interactions with her peers, anyway. And it's just _ words _, much more tolerable than the vandalism of her property, or the bet about her virginity.

Something about the way Cersei says the words, though, feels _ personal _ , like she's trying to hurt Brienne even though she doesn't know Brienne can hear. Jaime defends her, though, and he's the first person, other than Ser Barristan, in King's Landing to _ ever _ do so. Then, he _ praises _ her, and Brienne feels herself blushing.

_ She'll be better than me_.

Brienne basks in the feeling because whatever ever _ else _ Jaime Lannister is, he's majestic with a blade in his hands. She hears movement in the room, and curiosity compels her to peak around the door jam. She needs to talk to Jaime, anyway--Ser Barristan sent her to fetch him.

What greets her is the sight of Jaime and Cersei _ kissing_, and Brienne skitters back down the hall to the top of the stairwell, hand over her mouth. 

_ The rumors are true. _

People kissing doesn't startle her--she's been around men for the last four years, and the baser desires are no stranger to her. She's _ seen _ more explicit things than that, especially in camps and taverns. King's Landing seems to have whores pouring out of all the doors and windows. Hell, she's defended herself against such advances more than once.

But this, _ this-- _

Brienne's first thought is that she's seen something _ illicit _ and not meant for her eyes. She can barely fathom the discretion needed to carry on something like _ that. _ Their twin, golden heads bent together, and the possessiveness of Cersei's hands are burned into her mind. She thinks of the Targaryens, of siblings being _ lovers _, husbands and wives, and can't quite wrap her head around it.

Cersei will walk in front of her, eventually, and Brienne doesn't want to be accused of tarrying in delivering the message, so she's a bit stuck. If she goes back on the stairs, loudly, maybe they will hear her? It will increase the chance of the implication that she _ saw _, and Brienne has always been a terrible liar.

The problem solves itself (or gets worse, perhaps), when Cersei descends the stairs.

“Why are you skulking here?” Cersei asks snidely. “Well, I guess you're too _ huge _to really skulk.”

“Ser Barristan asked me to fetch Ser Jaime.” 

It's best to stick with the _ exact _ truth with no extraneous details.

“Well, he's in his room, but I suppose you already _ knew _ that.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Brienne bows as she speaks.

“Ladies _ curtsy _ , you know. They don't bow like _ men_.” 

If she was more quick-witted, Brienne would say her method of successful etiquette _ was _to do what a man would do. She looks likes less of a fool that way, usually. 

“I'm not a lady, your grace,” she says instead. Maybe she should have just attempted the curtsy.

Cersei smiles, filled with malice, and Brienne realizes the full consequences of being a Lannister--she thinks herself beyond impunity. “My brother seems to think you are, but Jaime has never been very smart.”

Cersei leaves, red skirts trailing behind her, and Brienne can't get her legs to carry her up the stairs. Her heart is _ pounding. _

_ She knows; she knows I _saw.

* * *

Jaime reaches the bottom of the stairs to find Brienne uncharacteristically still.

“Ser Barristan wants to see you this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry.” Cersei is barely out of earshot before the apology bubbles it's way out of Jaime's mouth. “She’s--” 

He's not sure _ what _ Cersei is, honestly. They've been entwined, ignoring the world around them, since before Jaime had a concept of self. 

_ No one else matters, but the two of us. _

Never before has he minded her behavior toward another person.

“Don’t worry. I won't pay it any mind.” 

_ You might want to, though_, he thinks.

Is she so accustomed to mocking that it really rolls off her back so effortlessly? Jaime isn't a stranger to derogatory comments, but he just puts up a good _ show _ of remaining unaffected. The barrier of Lannister money doesn't hurt, either. Brienne, though, seems to have an intrinsic strength. Admiration for her has crept up on him in the months she's been his squire. She's _ good _, and noble, and all the things Jaime wanted to be a lifetime ago when Arthur Dayne placed his sword upon Jaime's shoulders.

“Do they really call--” Jaime starts and cuts himself off. “I'll talk to her.” It won't matter, and Cersei will mock him for the attempt, but Jaime vows to try.

“Don't bother,” Brienne replies, “She not the first, nor the last. She's cruel to you, too, though.”

“Cersei is...an unhappy person.”

“And that excuses cruelty?” Brienne clamps her mouth shut, clearly thinking she's overstepped.

Jaime is silent for a long pause. _ You can't understand _ , he thinks, a line of logic that he's used as justification for his entire life, ever since their mother had separated them the first time. _ What's between us is unfathomable to anyone else. _

“She's my other half,” Jaime says instead. It's the closest he's ever come to an admission. Cersei was kissing him just minutes ago; it feels like he just told Brienne _ I fuck my sister_.

Of course, Brienne would have heard the rumors--that all of Robert Baratheon's children were Jaime’s bastards. It was the best, worst-kept secret; the true thing that everyone knew, but no one dared believe. 

“She's not,” Brienne responds, crossing her arms and looking down at him with those guileless eyes of hers. “People don't have other halves.”

_ Those _ words hurt; of course, Jaime isn't worthy of feeling complete in the arms of another. Cersei always told him he was too romantic, too foolish, and that she was the _ only _ one who would have him. He can't summon the words to contradict Brienne, looking at the ground when she rests a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't think she's ever touched him outside of training.

“It’s sad a notion, isn’t it, to think that you need another person to be whole?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’ve always loved her,” Jaime repeats and remembers what he said to Brienne, all those months ago--"She’s my other half."_
> 
> _“You can love something bad for you,” Tyrion pours more wine for both of them. “For example, I love wine, and too much wine is bad for me.”_
> 
> _“And yet, you drink it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed at the the response this has gotten. Thank you for all the reviews and kudos! I hope you enjoy this chapter as Jaime starts figuring some of his shit out.

Of all the days for Jaime to follow Brienne back to her room, it’s the day someone writes “Kingslayer’s Whore” on her door in paint. Brienne closes her eyes like it will make the scene different after a second look. She’s dealt with this, _ a lot _ , so there’s no reason that _ this _ should create the hot, burning feeling behind her eyes. She hasn’t cried since she learned about the betting pool, and even then, it was scalding tears of anger absorbed into her pillow in the dead of night.

_ Shame _ is fine, but she’d prefer to weather it alone. Showing that she’s affected gives them more power. Jaime stands beside her, white cloak brushing against her shoulder, and Brienne can’t bring herself to look at him.

“I thought Cersei was lying.”

Brienne shrugs, “She wasn’t.”

“...You heard her that day?”

Jaime’s panicking; it’s subtle, but Brienne can tell from the change in his posture and the way his eyes dart down the empty hallway before returning to her. Brienne can’t think of a way to tell him she’ll mind her own business, and keep his confidence, without outright _ saying _ it.

“Don’t concern yourself with it.” She could be talking about the vandalism of her door, or about the implications of overhearing any snippet of his conversation with Cersei. 

“I have to,” Jaime responds.

Brienne _ hates _ veiled conversations like this. 

Her lock is broken, and when Brienne notices, a lead weight settles in her stomach. “You don’t have to come in,” she tells Jaime when her hand is on the knob.

“No, I’ll stay.”

Brienne nods, and the wave of shame that crests over her at the state of her room makes her want to run. Her trunk is upended again, and whoever broke in this time ransacked her desk. The letters she’s kept from her father since she arrived in King’s Landing are strewn across the floor. The worst victim is her sapphire cloak, embroidered with Tarth’s house sigil and lined with rose. The rich velvet of it lies in a heap on the floor, and Brienne can see the rips in the fabric.

If she asks her father for a new one, he’ll _ know _ about her harassment, and Brienne doesn’t want to worry him.

She kneels next to the cloak, running her fingers over the crunched fabric. Brienne cares little for material possessions, and owns nothing that would be considered finery or feminine, but the cloak is _ beautiful_, and she treasures it. The blue is the same as the water around Tarth, and she misses her home desperately. 

Of all the days _ not _ to wear it.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime kneels beside her and reaches for the cloak.

“Why?”

“It’s your association with me that caused this, isn’t it?”

Brienne shakes her head, “‘The ‘Kingslayer’s Whore’ bit is new, but this has been happening since I arrived here. I try not to let it get to me.”

“You’re no one’s whore,” Jaime says, “least of all mine.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“I think my father is behind our matching,” Jaime has never told her this in the months they’ve known each other. “He wants me to quit the Kingsguard and return home to inherit Casterly Rock.”

“And _ no one _ wants me to succeed.”

“So, you’re dishonored into quitting by being paired with the Kingslayer, and I am the same by being forced to have a woman as a squire.”

Suddenly, Brienne is laughing, “That’s a _ stupid _plan. I don’t think the people behind these machinations have a good understanding of our personalities.”

“I felt put upon to even _ have _ a squire, at the beginning.”

“You’re annoying, but skilled enough that I can suffer it.” Brienne stands, taking the cloak with her and shaking it out.

“Can it be fixed?”

“Not by me. I’ve no skill with a needle.”

Jaime stands, pulling on the opposite side of the cloak to spread it out fully. “Unfortunately, I have no such skills, either. Give it to me; I will find someone who can.”

“Ser, you don’t need to bother--”

Jaime shakes his head and takes the cloak from her, draping it over his arm. Brienne doesn’t want to imagine the rumors that will come from Jaime parading around King’s Landing with her Tarth heraldry on his arm. 

“I’ll tell Ser Barristan to have you moved to the squire’s quarters near mine.”

“In the White Sword Tower? I’m not sure that will help.”

“I’d like to see a squire come through that door and attempt what was done here.” Jaime shrugs, “Squires can be housed near the knight they attend. I just didn’t want to be bothered by someone I was certain to find irritating being that close to me.”

Brienne’s happy to have his favor, and isn’t quite sure when his opinion _ mattering _ crept into her mind. “I would be...pleased to get away from this hallway.” At this moment, the other students probably had ears pressed to doors, listening to this conversation.

“Lady Brienne, if our association besmirches your honor, you might as well reap some benefit from it.”

* * *

Ser Barristan summons Brienne this time, and she sits across from his desk. She didn't wear her armor today and feels practically naked in comparison to him, in full Kingsguard white. He's so _ imposing _ and advancing in age hasn't diminished it.

Unlike Jaime, Ser Barristan _ never _ deviates from his uniform. 

“Lady Brienne, how are you? Be honest.”

Unused to people asking such a question and wanting a real answer, she stumbles as she tries to formulate a response. “I'm...well,” she starts, and then, with more confidence, continues, “I think I'm the best I've been since I arrived here.”

Ser Barristan looks surprised, “You've spent everyday for the past nine months with the _ Kingslayer _.”

“Ser Jaime isn't so bad,” Brienne feels a smile creeping onto her face, and doesn't try and stifle it--it's _ satisfying _to have people realize she doesn't hate an arrangement meant to punish her. “He talks a lot, though.”

“You..._ like _ being his squire?”

“You aren't fond of Ser Jaime, are you?” The question is impudent, but Brienne asks it anyway.

“He killed his _ king_,” Ser Barristan grinds out the words, “I know King Robert pardoned him, but allowing him to keep his position is still unfathomable to me, all these years later.”

Brienne still doesn't know _ why _ Jaime killed Aerys. She's come close to asking him at least twice, but can never get the words out. She's afraid the answer will ruin the rapport they've built. 

“Ser, was it your idea to match us up?” Ser Barristan isn’t in charge of the academy, but Brienne can’t imagine such a match being made without his approval; Jaime was Kingsguard, after all. If she's asking inappropriate questions, there's no point in doing half-measures. 

“It was Tywin Lannister's suggestion, actually.”

_ And you listened? _ Brienne thinks, but definitely doesn't have the gall to ask. “He wants Ser Jaime dismissed from the Kingsguard to inherit Casterly Rock.”

Ser Barristan nods, “He thought the arrangement mutually beneficial, which is not entirely correct. I _ do _ want Ser Jaime off the Kingsguard, but I never intended to encourage you to quit as well. I actually thought you might be able to suffer him.”

“Nothing will make me quit.” Not threats of rape and violence, not japes at her appearance, not vandalism of her property, and _ definitely _ not being a squire for an annoying, arrogant, but _ kind _ Jaime Lannister.

“That's exactly what I was betting on.”

What Brienne _ doesn't _tell Ser Barristan is that Jaime won't quit either. Whether it's being close to Cersei, or spite towards his father, both have been enough to keep the white cloak around Jaime's shoulders for the last fifteen years. Brienne really doesn't think her presence can change that.

* * *

“My brother's arriving today.”

They're in the armory; Brienne is doing what amounts to cleaning--the pages leave weapons leaning against walls, pieces of armor scattered around, and never sweep the straw that gets tracked in from the practice yard.

“Would you be interested in _ helping _ while you’re blathering?”

Jaime grins at her, even though Brienne is facing away. “No, wench. Kingsguard don't _ clean. _”

Brienne huffs, and Jaime is pretty sure she mutters something about him being an _ annoying ass _ before she asks, “Are you looking forward to Lord Tyrion's visit?”

“Yes, but father will be with him, which is...less desirable.”

“You can prove him wrong, though,” Brienne answers, “He probably expected you to leave by now.”

“Yet, here we persist.”

Tywin Lannister, for all his supposed power, knows shockingly little about the actual lives of his children. Certainly, he knows how he _ thinks _ they can be manipulated, but his blind spots are large. He _ still _has no knowledge of Jaime's relationship with Cersei. 

Brienne looks back at him, “It will take more than you, Ser Jaime, to make me quit.”

“Father doesn't...know us very well.”

“Parents often see what they _ want _ their children to be.” Brienne looks thoughtful, now, and Jaime wonders if she's thinking about Lord Selwyn. The shadow passes, though, and Brienne stands. “May I meet Lord Tyrion?”

“Please do. And, if you're willing...I'd _ love _to rub our affable partnership in my father's face.”

* * *

“So this is your _ giant _ squire.” 

Tyrion has a flagon of wine already, which, according to all of Jaime's descriptions, should be affixed to his hand in some fashion. 

“My little brother likes drink and whores,” Jaime told her once. Brienne kept wondering _ how _they get along so well if that's the case because Jaime doesn't seem interested in either of those things.

“Tyrion, this is Lady Brienne of Tarth."

“My Lord,” Brienne bows, as always, and Tyrion takes her hand. The height discrepancy between them surely makes the scene comical.

“A warrior woman,” Tyrion looks at Jaime, “I like this one; much better than your usual selection.”

Jaime gives Tyrion a _ look_, raised eyebrows and a disbelieving shake of his head, and Brienne pretends to be clueless. Her face is red, and she's an open book, so there's probably not much point. 

“Ser Jaime talks about you a lot,” she blurts. Maybe she can lean into her awkwardness. 

“Glowing praise, I am certain,” Tyrion drinks directly from the flagon again and ushers them to the chairs scattered around the table in his chambers.

“Never a _ single _ nice thing,” Jaime replies, and the two laugh at each other.

Brienne sits between them, back straight as a board, and can't think of a single way to relax in this setting. For a guestroom in the Red Keep, the room screams _ Lannister _\--red and gold and ostentatious. 

“So, you've been dealing with this annoyingly handsome jackass for nearly a year,” Tyrion pushes a goblet at her, encouraging her to imbibe. “What's the biggest way you've suffered. We can compare notes, as the awkward pair in the room.”

Brienne looks at Jaime because who _ couldn't _ ? He actually looks embarrassed, but Brienne hates how he _ never _ looks awkward. Even that sheepish grin works with his stupid golden hair and stupid green eyes. She's so _ envious_\-- 

They're looking at each other, and Tyrion is _ grinning _, glancing between them. Surely, she hasn't made eye contact with Jaime for this long outside of a fight. Brienne could probably start a fire with her face using wet kindling in the rain.

“He talks too much,” Brienne blurts, “it's _ endless_, and most of it’s poorly-timed jokes or gloating.”

“_Wench. _”

“And--and he calls me _ that_.”

“Well, you're too _ serious_,” Jaime counters.

“Excuse me for knowing when _ not _ to joke.”

“And Lady Brienne is _ better _ than me, and it makes me jealous _ and _impressed.”

“Ser, I'm definitely _ not_\--”

Tyrion's laughter interrupts their banter, and he downs another half goblet of wine before he speaks, “Like I said, Jaime, she is _ definitely _ an improvement.”

* * *

Brienne excuses herself, all awkward bumbling, and then it’s just the two of them.

Tyrion raises his glass, “If you’re not fucking her, you should be.”

“_What_?”

“You heard me.”

“I did, but _ what_?”

“Your giant squire, the one that was just here, making doe eyes at you across the table, you should be--”

“Tyrion, _ shut up_.”

“Why? Can I not give my brother life advice?”

“I love Cersei,” Jaime answers. It’s like being a Lannister--absolute, immutable. Even when Jaime _ loathes _ being a Lannister, he is one.

“Our sister is a _ cunt_, and you know it.”

Jaime’s been pulled between them since Tyrion’s birth. Cersei _ hates _ Tyrion, blames him for their mother’s death, which Jaime has never been able to understand. Jaime loves them both, equally; he’s tried to build a bridge between them because family should stick together, but it’s useless.

“She’s...unhappy. You would be, too, married to Robert.”

Tyrion laughs, “Fine, but there’s no need to go down with her.”

“I’ve always loved her,” Jaime repeats and remembers what he said to Brienne, all those months ago. _ She’s my other half_.

“You can love something bad for you,” Tyrion pours more wine for both of them. “For example, I love wine, and too much wine is bad for me.”

“And yet, you drink it.” And for the trajectory of this conversation, Jaime is going to need more wine, too. He takes the offered cup and looks at Brienne’s barely-touched glass, still between them. 

“To our vices,” Tyrion agrees, holding up his glass until Jaime clinks them together, “May we choose better ones.”

Jaime thinks about vices, about addiction, for the rest of the day. Then, he thinks about Brienne, and _ fucking_, and by the time he crawls into bed, he’s just very confused. It’s an impossibility, but he wants to go to Cersei, sneak across the keep and crawl into bed with her like when they were children. She would touch him, familiar hands and golden hair, and Jaime wouldn’t have to _ think_.

Brienne is next door, though, much closer than Cersei, in the squire’s quarters she’s resided in for months now. For the first time, Jaime allows himself to imagine going and knocking on her door. Brienne would open it, and look down at him with those arrestingly blue eyes of hers, probably confused and uncertain. Why would Jaime, of all people, knock on her door well after midnight?

Would she let him kiss her? Or take him into her bed?

Jaime’s only known Cersei, and he wants for the imagination to conjure the possibility of something beyond her. He only knows the way Brienne holds her sword, and the strength of her when she pushes against him when they spar. She could overtake him, easily, but there’s a contrast there, too, the softness in her expression when they held her torn cloak between them, when she speaks of Tarth or her father.

His father certainly wasn’t imagining _ this _ punishment when he matched them up. Nevertheless, Jaime falls into a restless sleep, lusting after the Maid of Tarth, and _ that _ is something he doesn’t know what to do with.

* * *

Tywin Lannister finds them in the training yard; Brienne doesn't notice his arrival at first, but Jaime and Tyrion stop mid-movement and look in his direction. Brienne can _ almost _feel the air grow cold, and both Lannister brothers have stopped laughing.

Tyrion, sitting on a nearby barrel against the wall, even returns his flask to his lap.

It means that Tywin sees Brienne for the first time, sword pointed at Jaime and covered in dust. She's been dreading meeting Tywin--no one speaks a kind word about him, and Brienne doesn't like that she was unknowingly his pawn.

“Jaime,” Tywin opens with, gracing his son with an evaluative look. 

Jaime is more covered in dust than Brienne is, particularly on his right half, where she’d knocked him onto the ground. Brienne still isn’t convinced she’s _ better_, but she definitely has more brute force potential.

“Father.”

“So, is _ this _ what Kingsguard do now? Roll around in the dust like children?”

“We were just--” Jaime starts.

“Training,” Brienne adds. 

“They were fighting for my amusement. You see, I wanted to see which one of them was stronger.” Tyrion finishes. Jaime gives him a look like he’s a fool to provoke Tywin. Tyrion just shrugs and re-opens the flask.

“...And?” Tywin asks, and Brienne sees the trap in his words. If Jaime is stronger, he beat a _ woman_, and if Brienne is stronger, Jaime was beat _ by _ a woman. 

“Brienne,” Jaime answers, grinning at her; he looks so _ boyish _ , genuinely cheerful instead of his usual witty barrier. Brienne likes looking at Jaime the most when he looks like he’s having _ fun _. It might be the more damaging of the two answers, but the compliment makes Brienne feel like she’s floating up to the sky.

“It was close, ser,” Brienne says; her words probably adding nothing positive to the look Tywin is leveling at them. 

“Ruling Casterly Rock would be a better use of your time than this _ playing_.” Tywin crosses his arms, “If the city is so lacking in conflict, you’re surely not needed here.”

“But, Father, if he quits, who will amuse me while I’m here?”

Brienne looks to Tyrion, but he looks like he’s so used to Tywin’s comments that it’s killed any sense of self-preservation. He just waves his fingers at her.

“Ser Jaime certainly still has things to teach me,” Brienne says.

“I think you matched them up well, Father,” Tyrion hops off the barrel and walks over to them. “Lady Brienne can put up with Jaime’s awful personality _ and _ pummel him senseless. You know how prone he is to moping. _ Truly _, this was one of your better plans.”

With that, Tywin intakes a sharp breath through his nose, and everyone’s eyes follow Tyrion as he walks out of the training yard.

* * *

Jaime doesn’t like meeting Ser Barristan, especially not alone. He can still remember the _ look _ Barristan gave him as Robert pardoned him for killing Aerys. Of course, Robert’s Rebellion hadn’t been about overthrowing the Mad King, just his lust for Lyanna Stark, and Jaime killing Aerys _ definitely _ had nothing to do with wanting Robert Baratheon to sit on the throne. 

No, it was all just circumstance.

Barristan _ hates _ his presence, though, and Jaime’s read it in his features for over fifteen years. The sentiment is there, now, as Jaime stands across the desk from him. Maybe it’s Jaime’s fault for never explaining himself, never mentioning the wildfire and what it was like to watch Aerys burn, and burn, and _ burn _, and to imagine the entirety of King’s Landing engulfed in green flame.

Would Barristan judge that _ worthy _ of breaking an oath, if he knew?

“Ser Jaime.”

There’s a chair across from the desk, and maybe it’s petulant, but Jaime crosses his arms and doesn’t sit. “That’s me,” he answers.

Barristan passes him a missive, parchment rolled into a tight tube and stamped with wax--the seal of the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, although Jaime doubts the man himself ever touched the document. Jaime breaks the seal and unrolls the paper, reading it slowly.

“Tarth?”

The commander nods, “A rumor of bandits near the coast, raiding villages.”

Jaime thinks of Brienne describing the waters around her home, and her eyes, and imagines the color _ must _ be the same. The strange sensation that washes over him when he looks at her hits him again. Tyrion smirked at Jaime so many times over that expression for the few weeks he’d been here.

“Who's the blushing maiden, _ now _?” Tyrion said to him just the other night, “It's certainly not Lady Brienne. Can you imagine her holding you down, and--”

How many ways can Jaime tell his little brother to shut up, shut up, _ shut up _\--

“Isn’t this job beneath me?” he says, if only to live up to Barristan’s expectations of his disposition.

“What’s commanded of you is _ never _ beneath you,” Barristan answers. He’d walked into the reproach, certainly, but Jaime bristles at the words. “The assignment looks like a good fit for Lady Brienne’s field test. She knows the terrain and its people, so it should be a good demonstration to evaluate her skills. And, I know she misses her island.”

Leaving Cersei pains him, but an adventure with Brienne sounds _ fun _. He’s never been to Tarth, but Brienne talks about it enough that he wants to see it himself.

He must be smiling because Barristan is scowling at him. 

“When do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up in a few days! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ser Jaime,” Brienne starts, stepping away from her father to fill the space between them. “This is my father, Selwyn Tarth, lord of Evenfall Hall.”_
> 
> _“Jaime Lannister,” Selwyn repeats his name, “Are you as skilled with a blade as my daughter’s letters say?”_
> 
> _Of all the fucking stories about him, Selwyn Tarth’s measure of him is his daughter’s letters?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still AMAZED by all the kudos and reviews!
> 
> This chapter was such fun because writing Selwyn makes me incredibly happy. Characterization of him in canon is pretty sparse, but he _did_ let Brienne train with a sword and didn't stop her from going to Storm's End. I leaned really hard on that, so he's SUPER SUPPORTIVE of her knightly dreams.
> 
> I make a "Jaime is the stupidest Lannister" joke here, which I am not usually a fan of. One of the biggest injustices done to Jaime in the show is making him into a fucking idiot, emotionally AND intellectually. However, I think Cersei calling him an idiot is _totally_ in character, and so is Jaime believing her at bit, at least at this point in his character arc.

“Our sweet sister is jealous.”

Jaime looks at his younger brother, wondering, for once, if Tyrion is too deep in his cups to assess a situation properly.

“Jealous,” he repeats, “of what?”

Tyrion takes another drink of wine, “Anything that distracts you from her.”

It’s evening, midsummer; Jaime looks out at the lights of King’s Landing. “I’m...not jealous of Robert.”

Thinking of fat, drunken Robert pawing at his beautiful sister made Jaime feel disgusted, but never jealous. He’d lived with the fact that she was married to Robert for over a decade, and felt nothing for it beyond the necessity of keeping their trysts a secret. Robert didn’t factor into the space between them--Cersei didn’t _ want _ Robert, she wanted _ him _. The rest was just...duty, and even then, Cersei had never given Robert a child of his own. Not that Jaime really thinks of the children as his, either, even though it’s factually accurate.

“Of course you’re not,” Tyrion replies, laughing, “Cersei doesn’t love Robert; she’s never even wanted him.”

“She loves _ me_,” Jaime smacks his glass on the table with too much force at the last word.

“Has she ever _ said _ that to you?”

Jaime falls silent, thinking, “Before Robert, when she wanted me to join the Kingsguard.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow, “That was almost twenty years ago.”

Had she really not said it since?

Cersei says _ other _ things--that they're _ one_, and nothing can part them, that they were born together and will die together. He knows Tyrion judges him, whether for the fact that he fucks his twin sister, or because it’s _ Cersei_, or both. It must hurt Tyrion that Jaime is loyal to someone who’s so cruel to him.

Every conversation with Cersei for the last few months has gone the same way--something Jaime says sets her off, and she launches an attack on anything and everyone Jaime enjoys. She kisses him, and Jaime never stops her, but he _ feels _ Cersei’s possessiveness, her intent to pull him away from anything but _ her_. Jaime used to think it was romantic, but now he isn’t sure.

Then, there’s Brienne, who listens to him ramble, and rolls her eyes at his jokes. She hasn’t told _ anyone _ about Cersei, either, even though he is certain she knows. Jaime lies awake at night, confused, wondering about her in the next room over. 

“Maybe Cersei has a point about me being the stupidest Lannister.”

“Well,” Tyrion says, “you’re definitely _ not _ the drunkest.”

* * *

“_Tarth_?” Cersei says the name with such vehemence, “Can’t you send your pet back to her disgusting island alone?”

“Brienne isn’t my--” Jaime starts. He forgets the _ Lady _ before Brienne’s name, and Cersei doesn’t miss the familiarity. No, Cersei is acutely aware of every mention of Brienne. Tyrion’s voice, saying _ she’s jealous_, floats through Jaime’s mind as he watches Cersei’s face contort in anger.

“How long will you be gone?”

“A month,” he tells her, “maybe more.” Tarth wasn’t _ that _ far, but travel was unpredictable.

“I don’t see why you have to go,” Cersei snaps, beautiful and _ hateful _, and maybe she was always like this, and he never noticed?

“She’s my squire,” Jaime tries to explain, knowing it’s useless, “It’s my _ job _.”

Cersei had never complained when _ he _ was a squire, and they’d be separated for _ years _ during that time. Jaime reaches for her, an instinctual gesture, and Cersei brushes him off and turns away. 

“Enjoy traipsing through shit and mud with your whore, then.”

* * *

Jaime’s unpacking cheese and bread when Brienne comes back into the clearing in the Kingswood where they’ve made camp, holding a rabbit. The evening is warm, and Jaime hadn’t even considered building a fire. The ride to the port is only a few days, and hunting didn’t seem necessary yet.

“I wondered where you went,” he tells her when she sits on the ground near him.

Brienne shrugs, “I thought we deserved something more substantial than cheese.”

“_Hmmm_, a high-born lady who hunts.” Jaime can’t help but smile at her, even _ more _ pleased when he’s certain Brienne blushes in the light of the setting sun.

“S-ser,” she replies, holding the rabbit aloft and out of his grasp, “If you’re going to mock me; I don’t have to share.”

“I’d never mock someone who brought me dinner.”

Brienne lowers the rabbit and pulls out a knife, “Build a fire.”

“As my lady commands.”

When the rabbit is skinned and roasting, Brienne pulls her knees up and rests her chin on them. She looks like she’s trying to make herself smaller, which isn’t very effective.

“You seem to be in a good mood, ser,” she comments after a few moments of silence.

“You know what, wench, I am.”

As they rode east, away from King’s Landing, a weight Jaime didn’t know he was carrying started to dissipate, one stone at a time. They could have pressed their horses further, if they chose, but Jaime isn’t in a hurry--Ser Barristan gave them no deadline.

“Any reason?”

“Being out of King’s Landing,” Jaime answers. The rabbit looks like it needs turned, so he does.

“Do you hate the capital?”

“Yes,” he admits, feeling honest, “I only stay for--” Jaime stops, realizing what he was about to say, and clamps his mouth shut.

“It’s very crowded,” Brienne interjects, “but I’ve grown accustomed to it.” 

She’s always covering for him like that, in a dozen small ways that he’s probably missed most of. Cersei never, ever catches him, always so quick to point out his shortcomings. They fall silent again, and Jaime tries to think of what he wants to say. She’s watching the fire, turning the rabbit at intervals, and Jaime is more content here, with her, than he’s been in a long time. 

Jaime could tell her that, or, he could ask her how she feels about the fact that the Kingslayer, who fucks his sister and sired _ three _ bastards, stares at his ceiling at night and wonders what it would be like to bed his squire. That, in all the dozens of women who’ve thrown themselves at him, after Lannister gold, glory, or just his cock, she is the first to stir _ anything _ in him. Brienne, and her innate _ knightliness, _ is everything Jaime wanted to be, so long ago. He wants to confess his sins to her, to look to her for absolution, as though she could, or even _ would_, grant him that. 

Brienne is watching him, blue eyes concerned, and Jaime can only think about what a fucking mess he could make of this.

* * *

“Brienne,” Jaime says, eventually, “how long have we known each other?”

She’s pulling the rabbit off the fire; it burns her fingertips as she tears a piece off and offers the stick to Jaime. He doesn’t often say just her name--she’s _ wench_, or _ Lady Brienne_, if he’s feeling polite.

“A year,” she answers, “at the next new moon.”

“And what, in that amount of time, have you come to think of the _ Kingslayer_?”

“Are you asking me a trick question?”

“No, an honest one.”

Brienne takes a bite and tries to order her thoughts. “You talk too much,” she starts, “and you _ think _ you’re funny, but sometimes you’re definitely not.” There are things Brienne won’t, or can’t, bring herself say--that he’s still _ stupidly _ handsome, moreso when he’s laughing with Tyrion, and Cersei is _ away_. “But I think, or I _ hope_, at least, that you respect me, which is more than can be said for most.”

“That’s...not a high bar to set.” Disappointment is clear in Jaime’s voice, but Brienne wonders if it’s for her assessment of him, or her resignation at the way people treat her. “Of course I respect you; I know the damage you could do if I didn’t.”

_ That _ makes her crack a smile, and she almost pities Jaime for having to spend so much time with someone as dour as her. She eats more to hide her embarrassment.

“I think you seem lonely.” It’s the most, and maybe least, thorough sentiment Brienne can come up with. There’s a part of her that wants to comfort Jaime, wants to learn what he needs and _ why _ he needs it. That maybe, if she reached out to him, even with all her ungainliness, he’d _ look _ at her and _ see _\--

Jaime falls silent, and Brienne wonders if she’s overstepped again.

“I want you to think I’m a good man.”

If deeds, not words, are the measure of a person’s quality, Brienne decides that Jaime _ must _ be. She’s been with him nearly everyday for a year--he’s kind, and does his duty, even if he’s sarcastic or blustering on the outside. There’s _ Kingslayer_, though, and the looming shadow of things they don’t discuss.

“I want to think that, too,” Brienne answers, “No one is like a knight from a song, though. When I was a girl, I thought it was so _ simple_, to be righteous, and that the correct course of action would be obvious.”

Jaime looks at the fire, and not her, when he speaks. “When Arthur Dayne laid his sword upon my shoulder, all I could think was _ ‘I want to be just like you.’ _”

Brienne understands _ perfectly--_The Sword of the Morning was, to Jaime, what Renly had been to her at twelve. Only Jaime had _ seen _ his ideal on the battlefield. All Brienne had were stories where she wanted to be the brave, chivalrous knight, no matter what anyone told her was her place_. _

“Perhaps a better ideal than pledging one’s service to Renly Baratheon.”

Jaime _ laughs_, then, and flops back onto the grass, staring at the now-dark sky. His amused expression, in profile, makes Brienne’s heart skip a beat. “May I ask you another question?”

“You may.”

“You know about Cersei and me, don’t you?”

The question has a similar effect on Brienne as jumping in a cold stream, but she answers honestly. “Yes.”

He looks to his left then, green eyes finding hers, and the cold feeling is gone, replaced by something else entirely. That _ look_, all Lannister lion, turned on the wrong person-- 

“How long?”

“The day I told you she was cruel to you, in the stairwell of the Tower.”

“That was over half a year ago.” Jaime’s expression softens, but he’s still looking at her. “And you’ve never said anything?”

“I saw her kiss you,” Brienne explains, no need to keep it to herself anymore, “but I shouldn’t _ know_, so I’d never tell.”

Jaime looks back up at the sky. “That’s honorable of you.”

There’s no prying ears and eyes here, no one to run and tell Cersei, or Tywin, or King Robert of their conversation. Brienne has _ questions_, so many, and she can’t keep them in anymore. 

“How long?”

“Since we were children,” Jaime admits, “before our mother died. Her maid caught us, once, but she never told anyone.”

Brienne, feeling more maidenly than _ ever_, hopes the fire will hide how she’s struggling to process Jaime’s words. “So, Lord Tywin has _ no idea_?”

“You’re the one who said parents sometimes see what they want their children to be, not what they _ are _ .” Jaime laughs, but this time he’s clearly not amused, and even Brienne can find a sick twist of humor at how _ blind _ Tywin is.

“I won’t tell,” Brienne says, surprised at how easily the promise comes to her. Even with the broader implications, the _ children _, the things she’s afraid to ask just yet, she’ll keep his confidence.

Jaime doesn’t look at her again, but he does whisper a quiet _ thank you_, upwards to the sky.

* * *

A fishing boat takes them across the Straits of Tarth. The captain seems irritated, at first, but some Lannister gold dumped in his lap smooths things over. They stable their horses, and Jaime throws money at that, too. The boat isn’t much beyond a dinghy, and Jaime imagines a startled movement would capsize it. Brienne looks out of place, seated on a cramped bench near the bow, broad shoulders hunched against the wind coming off the water.

“Is money how you approach all your problems?” Brienne asks.

“No. Surely you’ve noticed that some issues are better solved with a sword.”

Brienne gives him a small shake of her head and looks out to the water. The coastline of Tarth is visible from the opposite shore, green trees leading up a steep incline. He can make out what must be Evenfall Hall, high above, white stones shining in the afternoon sun.

It’s the water that stands out to Jaime most, though, sapphire blue--just like Brienne’s eyes. She’s still looking away from him, though, out over the water as the wind whips her blonde hair around. He’ll have time to compare the colors later, surely. 

Jaime starts to wonder if there’s actually a place with enough shoreline to dock, but once they’re closer, the fisherman guides the boat along the shore until an inlet is visible. Calling the space a port might be overselling it, but there’s enough of a dock to anchor to.

“It’s so...remote,” Jaime remarks, scanning the few fishing boats and the rocky beach.

“Were you expecting Casterly Rock?” Brienne answers.

“Gods, I hope not.” 

_ That _ earns Jaime a raised eyebrow. Like with the _ people _ in his family, Jaime’s relationship with his ancestral home is complex--Casterly Rock is beautiful, but Jaime is content to leave the running of it someone, _ anyone _ else. If only their father would let Tyrion take it.

Brienne climbs out of the boat and puts a steadying hand on Jaime’s shoulder as he wobbles on the dock. Then, her hand is gone, just as soon, and Jaime grabs his own belongings and hurries to catch up with her long strides. 

“Does Lord Selwyn know we’re coming?”

“He should,” Brienne looks up at Evenfall, rising above the beach, “I sent a raven a few days before we left.”

“Is there anything I should know about him?”

Brienne’s voice takes on a wistful tone Jaime’s unaccustomed to hearing. “Only what you said when we first met--he’s a man who let his daughter, and only heir, train to become a knight.” 

“Could he have kept you here, really, if you didn’t want to stay?”

Brienne’s two paces ahead of him again, and she turns back to him, “No. I would have run away.”

Her eyes and the water really are _ exactly _ the same.

At the bottom of a long, winding path of stone steps, and guard in Tarth heraldry greets him. “I’ve sent word of your arrival, my lady. Lord Selwyn anticipates you.”

When the two of them finally _ do _ get to Evenfall’s keep, Jaime is nearly winded from the long procession of stairs. Brienne, on the other hand, sprints up the last flight like a horse that knows the stable is near. 

Lord Selwyn Tarth stands in the middle of the cobblestone courtyard, arms crossed. Jaime’s first thought is _ hells, this is where Brienne gets her stature from _ . Selwyn is _ tall _, nearly a head taller than Brienne herself, which makes Jaime feel like he’s walking in the shadow of one of those mythical giants from north of the Wall. He has Brienne’s straw-colored hair, but not her eyes.

“Hello, Father,” Brienne says, and she bows like she always does, like a _ knight_, and Selwyn _ smiles _.

He puts his hands on Brienne’s shoulders, and even with Brienne’s breadth, Selwyn’s hands _ still _ look huge. “Brienne, you look strong.”

_ Of all the words for a lord to greet his daughter with. _

Brienne hugs her father, and Jaime is overcome with a long-forgotten desire for parental affection. Imposing, critical Tywin had certainly _ never _ hugged them, and their mother had been gone for so long that Jaime can scarcely remember what her embrace felt like; he tries to recall her slight frame and floral smell, and the memories slip through his fingers like smoke. Selwyn holds his daughter like he _ loves _ her and is proud to see Brienne grow into what she wants to be.

_ This _ must be where Brienne gets her kindness, in spite of every obstacle before her.

Jaime looks down at his finely-made boots--he’d come to Tarth without his Kingsguard white, but all the Lannister gold in Westeros can’t make up for the affection between Selwyn and Brienne. Seeing it makes him feel bereft--all Tywin ever gave his children were the burdens of his expectations, and look how the three of them turned out. Jaime wants to uncharacteristically slink down the stairs and out of view.

_ Lannisters don’t run_, his father’s voice echoes in his mind, and Jaime keeps his feet planted on the cobblestones.

Selwyn releases Brienne after a moment, and his eyes move to Jaime. He steels himself for the usual derision, hears _ Kingslayer _ on Selwyn’s lips before the man even speaks. Neither red, nor gold, nor white offer true protection--Jaime could don Brienne’s sapphire cloak, nothing will change the _ inside_.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne starts, stepping away from her father to fill the space between them. “This is my father, Selwyn Tarth, lord of Evenfall Hall.”

“Jaime Lannister,” Selwyn repeats his name, “Are you as skilled with a blade as my daughter’s letters say?”

Of all the fucking _ stories _ about him--knighted by Arthur Dayne, youngest member of the Kingsguard, _ ever _ , tourney victories and glory on the battlefield, Selwyn Tarth’s measure of him is his daughter’s _ letters? _

Well, it’s certainly a better metric than being called _ Kingslayer _ . Jaime’s laughing when he replies, “I’m _ sure _she exaggerates, my lord.”

* * *

Brienne walks Evenfall’s keep and corridors until the late afternoon sun makes the shadows long. It’s been four years since she’s been home, and she catalogs the things that have changed in her absence. The armory looks different, she doesn’t recognize half the servants, and her father’s latest lady has made modifications to the decorations of the great hall.

Jaime, for all his usual Lannister confidence, appears lost, and follows at her heels as she walks.

“Lady Brienne,” he asks her when they’re outside on one of the terraces, “do you _ really _ sing my praises in your letters home?”

The usual blush creeps up Brienne’s neck, and she looks out at the sea to avoid Jaime’s intense, green-eyed stare. “He asked me if I was assigned to someone...befitting of my skill.” _ That’s _more embarrassing than Jaime’s knowing smirk. “So, I told him the truth.”

“That I’m a golden lion, majestic with a blade--” Jaime puts his face in front of hers, blocking the view _ and _ the setting sun glinting off the sea. He’s too _ close_, and the image of him kissing Cersei from months ago enters her traitorous mind. _ He could kiss _ me; _ he’s so _close.

“I _ should _ have told him what an _ ass _ you can be.”

“Lord Selwyn will learn soon enough, I’m sure.”

Dinner is a raucous affair, by Tarth’s standards--there’s fish, and lamb, and more side dishes than Brienne remembers from last time she was home. The lady seated at her father’s other side is one she doesn’t recognize. Brienne is used to her father’s lovers and hasn’t paid them any mind in years--as long as they don’t try and mother her.

There’s mead, and Brienne sips at her goblet slowly; it tastes honey-sweet, and is more palatable than the red wine she drinks with Jaime and Tyrion, which just tastes like vinegar. She doesn’t like the sluggishness alcohol creates, even when she’s safe in her home. She watches Jaime, who drinks from his cup with equal slowness. Cersei and Tyrion make him mind his consumption.

Her father tells Jaime stories of Brienne’s childhood, including an elaborate rendition of Brienne’s last suitor, who she’d beaten with a mace. 

“I admitted defeat, after that, and let her go to the capital.” He sounds irritated, but he puts an arm around Brienne’s shoulders as he speaks. “Now, she won’t marry anyone who can’t best her in combat.”

Jaime’s mirthful laugh echoes across the hall, and Brienne stares at her plate; _ he’s _the only opponent to ever best her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Watching Brienne single-handedly cut through half a dozen bandits makes Jaime proud. She's _perfect_\--fast, and stronger than he could ever hope to be. She has less finesse, perhaps, but what does that matter when she drives her sword through a man's chest and then kicks him to free it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a little bad because so many comments were like "YAY! A TARTH ADVENTURE!" and you get...aaaaaaaangst. Or, maybe you saw this coming? I don't think Jaime is Jaime if this doesn't happen in some fashion.
> 
> I also can't write combat for _shit_, and am not super pleased with the middle of this, but I did my best!

The next morning; Brienne looks at a map of Tarth unrolled on a table. The corners are pinned down with an assortment of objects--a heavy goblet, a candle, a rock.

Jaime stands beside her, staring down at the map.

“Your little island seems treacherous.”

“Only if you disrespect it,” she counters, “or fall off a mountain.”

Their intelligence, what little there is, describes bandits raiding villages near the coast on the north end of the island, along the Narrow Sea. There’s no significant damage, yet, but the longer the bandits are unopposed, the bolder they grow.

“There’s reports of campfire smoke,” Jaime reads the missive Ser Barristan gave them before they departed, “which means a general location.”

“...It also means the bandits think they are beyond impunity,” Brienne says, “Tarth’s military presence is not strong.”

No, the people of Tarth fish, and farm, and log, and generally wish to be left alone.

“They’re surely no match for us, my lady.”

Brienne hopes that Jaime is right; she knows her island, and that will afford them an advantage. Jaime defers to her, letting her think aloud as she plans routes and angles of approach. They only have a general idea of where the bandits are located; the reports of raiding have been scattered across the coast.

“We should use the darkness to our advantage, if you think you can navigate us there without walking our horses off a mountain.”

“I _ absolutely _can.”

When they do leave, it’s late afternoon. Her father offers to send extra men to accompany them, but Brienne refuses--this is _ her _ test, so she will handle it on her own. They cut across the middle of the island, horses sure-footed on the rocky terrain.

“How do you even _ remember _ this path?” Jaime asks her, as they wind through rocky passes in the fading afternoon light.

“Repetition,” Brienne answers, “when I was a girl, we used to visit the villages scattered around.”

“Lord Selwyn seems good to his people.”

Brienne nods, “He is.”

They ride, mostly in silence, until they reach the bluff overlooking the coast. The moon is full, bright against the blackness of the water. Brienne loves this view--loves Tarth from every angle, from the highest tower of the keep, to wading in the waters of the Narrow Sea. She wonders if Jaime appreciates it the way she does, or if her home seems too remote, too backwards.

They’re on a stretch of cliffside that’s uninhabited--the cliffs too steep, and the beach too rocky and narrow. Further around the north of the island there’s more tractable land, sloping ground leading into the sea. The bandits probably won’t be there, though; it’s too close to the villages that the reports of the raiding originated from.

Brienne scans the sea, the cliffs, _ looking_. The moon provides a startlingly effective amount of light. 

“There,” she points a gloved hand to the south, past the edge of the bluff that juts out into the sea, masking the beach below.

“Smoke,” Jaime answers.

“There’s no villages on this side--but there _ are _ many hiding places.”

“They really _ are _ bold, making camp so close to where they’re raiding.”

The path down the bluff is hidden in the darkness, difficult to navigate even for Brienne, who knows the island like she knows the features of herself she dislikes the most, her broad shoulders, her once-broken nose, and her hair that’s too fine to make presentable. 

“Leave the horses,” she tells Jaime, dismounting and securing the lead to a nearby tree, “they’ll never make it down this.”

Jaime nods, dismounting and following Brienne down the steep, root-filled path. She tries to be silent, but as she nears the camp, the sound of the bandits’ laughter fills the air, and absolute silence seems unneeded. They reach the bottom, and Brienne wishes for _ any _ adeptness at stealth. Jaime isn’t much better--the way he slides down the length of the path is comical, trying and failing to find purchase with his heels.

They approach as silently as is feasible, circling the camp, looking for an opening. Brienne takes inventory of what they’re up against--the reports speculated a group of five or six men, but as she counts the men in the camp, there are closer to ten, maybe twelve. 

Brienne looks at Jaime, who shrugs as if to say, _ You don’t think we can take them? _

Not that they have a choice; returning up the steep path unnoticed would be a challenge. Well, they _ are _ supposed to eliminate them. Jaime makes a motion with his hand, as if telling her to go first.

It occurs to Brienne, as she rushes out of her hiding spot, that she’s never actually taken someone’s life. She knows that she will, that it’s inevitable, but now that it’s in front of her, she feels numb about it. The bandits certainly didn’t flinch away from killing fishermen and farmers during their raids.

The first bandit goes down easily enough--Brienne has the element of surprise when she drives her sword through his back. The thing that stands out the most is how little resistance there is; her sword pushes through flesh and muscle easily. Blood gurgles out the man’s mouth, and he slumps over.

Jaime downs two men before she has a chance to look to him. Brienne has heard stories, but has never seen him fight anyone in earnest. He’s so much more _ efficient _ that she is, like every movement is considered for maximum impact. Out of the corner of her eye, Brienne watches him feint and dodge, slashing a fourth bandit across the chest when there’s an opening.

There’s another man in front of her now, opposite the campfire. Brienne holds her sword out, using the distance created by the campfire to her advantage. She’s focused on the target before her and doesn’t notice the man coming up behind her.

“Brienne!” 

She looks in Jaime’s direction at the sound of her name. The bandit across the fire slashes at her, catching Brienne’s shoulder. Jaime lunges between them in an effort to halt the man behind her. The bandit moves his sword in a downward strike, catching Jaime’s right hand.

Then, Brienne watches, as if in slow motion, as the blade passes through Jaime’s wrist. There’s a horrific moment where Brienne isn’t even sure she’s breathing as Jaime’s hand falls and hits the sand. 

* * *

Watching Brienne single-handedly cut through half a dozen bandits makes Jaime proud. She's _ perfect_\--fast, and stronger than he could ever hope to be. She has less finesse, perhaps, but what does that matter when she drives her sword through a man's chest and then kicks him to free it?

_ Has she ever taken a life before? Surely not. _

The adrenaline keeps the pain at bay for a few moments, and Jaime stares at his severed hand where it landed in the sand a few feet from where he'd fallen. Blood pools out of his wrist and onto the beach, but even that feels oddly disconnected. 

_ I could bleed out here _ , he thinks, _ What would it matter, now? _

By the time Brienne kneels beside him, the adrenaline coursing through his system wears out, and then there's _ pain. _ Jaime is a soldier, and he doesn't, or _ tries _ not to fear death or injury. This hurts like nothing he's ever experienced, though, and he struggles to even take a successful breath. 

Then, just to add something to the _ awful fucking experience _, Jaime vomits into the sand.

“_Jaime_,” Brienne says his name, and he feels her hands against his cheeks; she's taken off one of her gloves; the other is bloody and slides against his skin. The absence of _ ser _ before his name seems startlingly intimate for some reason. “ _ Why _ did you do that?”

“...To protect you.”

“Look at me.”

He obeys, or tries to, but his vision is swimming. Brienne's blue eyes are fixed on him in the flickering light from the fire. She's injured, blood trickling down her neck.

“You're hurt,” he gasps, and _ that _seems more important than his own injuries. Brienne, at least, should be whole.

Brienne shakes her head, “It’s a scratch, but _you--_” She looks at the hand, then at this wrist, then at this face.

“Your eyes are _ stunning_. Has anyone ever told you?” 

Jaime doesn't know where the thought comes from, only that he's _ dying_, and Brienne should know that about herself, if no one has ever told her. There really are worse things for a man to look upon at the end of his life.

Her expression is confused, and she shakes her head, “_What _?”

_ It's okay _. She's alright, and that's good enough. Brienne was his to watch over, and she is unscathed.

“...Let me bleed to death.”

“Fuck you.” Anger flares across her features; then, “You don't get to die here.”

Brienne moves away from him, and Jaime closes his eyes--it would be so easy to just---

“Jaime,” his name rouses him; she’s beside him again, a torch in her bloody hand. “I’m sorry--you’re bleeding out.” 

The only thing he can think is how _ calm _ she looks; if he didn’t disagree that his life needed saved, he’d be impressed. Jaime thinks he blacks out for a second when she cauterizes the wound--it’s pain heaped upon _ pain_. When he comes to, Brienne’s tearing strips of cloth from her cloak to wrap around his wrist; the pressure is excruciating. 

“I _ am _ that hand,” Jaime almost _ sobs _ when Brienne hauls him to his feet. The blood loss has him dizzy, and he struggles to stand, and without her resolve, Jaime would collapse back to the ground.

He spares a final, nauseated look at the mess in the sand before Brienne drags him back up the mountain path and onto her horse, holding him between her and the reins. _ I'm the rescued maiden in this tale, definitely_, is the last thought Jaime has before promptly passing out, head lolling against Brienne's shoulder.

* * *

“He's lost a lot of blood. The cut is clean, however, and you stopped the bleeding. With proper care and dressing, the risk of infection should be minimal.”

Brienne nods, looking up from Jaime's sleeping form to Tarth's maester opposite the bed. So, Jaime would _ live_, but without his right hand to hold a sword.

_ Let me bleed to death. _

The ride back across the island was a blur--she rode in darkness most of the way, until dawn crested over the water as she reached Evenfall. Two of her father's men helped her haul Jaime from courtyard into her room. They'd protested placing Jaime on her bed, but Brienne ordered them, and no one contradicted her. She _ was _ the lady of the house, after all, not that anyone could tell, covered in armor and a variety of blood as she was.

The maester doses Jaime with milk of the poppy before he can awaken. Brienne strips him of his boots and armor, piles of Lannister red and gold in the corner of her room. She watches in horror as his wrist is rebandaged in fresh, white linen, muscle and bone visible to the naked eye. The maester applies some type of salve, but fresh blood blooms on the bandages almost immediately 

Brienne won't let anyone look at the gash running over her neck and collarbone until Jaime is settled. The maester stitches it up before he leaves, and when everything is as fine as it's going to be, Brienne curls into a ball on the opposite side of her bed and bursts into tears.

She sleeps, fitfully, until midday. A knock on her chamber door stirs her, and she is grateful for the excuse to get up. Jaime is still asleep, bandaged wrist atop the blankets. She'd slept beside him, and Brienne knows there's impropriety there, but she's too tired to care, regardless of who is at her door. Of all the maidenly daydreams about waking up next to a handsome knight, this was _ not _ how she would have envisioned it. 

The fresh clothes she'd changed into are rumpled, and her battered body protests when she stands. Her skin feels tight from crying, and she must look _ more _ of a wreck than usual.

Lord Selwyn is at her door when she opens it, and Brienne takes a step backwards. Her father looks past her, into her room, to Jaime on the bed. 

“G-good morning, Father. I wanted to be here,” she explains, blushing, “in case he wakes up.”

“The maester told me we shouldn't expect Ser Jaime to awake for today, at least.”

“I-I know, but I--”

Selwyn puts a hand on her shoulder, “Keep Ser Jaime here, it comforts you. Come eat something, though.”

Brienne is reluctant to leave, as though Jaime will vanish if she stops looking at him. She keeps telling herself his life isn't in danger--she'd gotten him back to Evenfall in time, the maester had stopped the bleeding. He will wake up, and he will recover, physically, at least. The moment his hand had been severed is burned behind her eyes--the scrape of steel against bone, the dull _ thunk _ as it hit the sand. 

Brienne gives Jaime a final parting look at she closes the door behind her. 

“Tell me what happened,” her father asks when they're seated, unusually gentle. Their relationship was _ good _, much better than a daughter like Brienne could dare to hope, but her father is not a soft man.

Brienne isn't sure she'll be able to eat, but when bacon and bread are put on the table, her stomach growls.

“It's _ my fault_,” Brienne ends with, and she feels like a _ child _, like her father will be able to comfort her if she looks to him, even though she knows there's no comfort to be had. “He was trying to protect me, and now--”

“Brienne, he'd be _ dead _ if you hadn't been there. You just told me you disarmed _ six _bandits.”

Through everything, her father sounds _ proud _ of it.

“I had to protect him.” 

* * *

For the first few days, Jaime is kept blissfully sedated by doses of milk of the poppy. Wakefulness comes to him in snippets--disconnected scenes that he can't always determine the veracity of. There's _ pain _, too, the excruciating burning at his right wrist nearly makes him retch. He's the most cogent then, when the pain sears the fog from his mind. Another dose of milk of the poppy follows, and Jaime is subdued to the blackness of sleep once more.

Brienne is a constant, whether in his dreams or reality. He has nightmares where she's the one who is killed, and sometimes the dreams merge with the ones he used to have about the Mad King. 

When he's awake, Brienne's propping his head up to help him drink water or warm broth. He recognizes hers as the touch that changes his bandages. She's careful, even though he's a useless, one-handed wretch.

“You’ll be fine,” she whispers, over and over, and Jaime wonders if the hand stroking through his hair is real or imagined.

Sometimes, Brienne's talking in whispers to Tarth's maester, whose name Jaime never learns. In the only conversation he hears clearly, he learns that he's in Brienne's room as she argues with the maester about moving him somewhere else.

“Ser Jaime _ stays here_,” Brienne says, in that mulish tone Jaime's come to know so well.

“But, my lady, “ the maester counters, “we’ve plenty of suitable guest chambers. You don't have to stay with him like this.”

“I didn't ask you what I _ have _ to do.”

Jaime can see her scowling in his mind, and it's the only happy thought he can muster.

Another time, Brienne is asleep next to him on the other half of the bed, atop the blankets. It's not the first time Jaime notices her there. She has her back to him, broad shoulders hunched as she curls around herself. She wakes when he thoughtlessly tries to use his right hand to push himself to seating. Jaime _ gasps_, pain shoots up his arm, and he remembers what was _ taken _ from him, how he is diminished. Brienne catches him, of course she does, a strong arm around his back pulling him close until his head rests on her shoulder.

“Ser Jaime?”

“Not _ ser _anymore,” he whispers back, throat dry. He doesn't know if he means they're beyond formalities between them, or if he can't be a knight in this state; perhaps it's both. “Was that your first time taking a life?” he whispers into her collarbone. He doesn't want to think about himself anymore.

Brienne nods, “It was quite a bit different than a tourney.”

Jaime laughs gruffly, “Men shit themselves when they die; they never tell you that in the songs.”

“I was afraid I’d flinch when the time came.”

“But you didn’t,” Jaime answers, proud of his squire, “Nevertheless, you should have left me there.”

Brienne tenses and replies, “Death is the easy course.”

“I know.”

She can't know how _ tired _ he is--worn down at every mention of _ Kingslayer_, at the disgusted look he's certain Cersei will give him when she learns of his missing hand, at his father's constant pressure. A knight with a missing hand is _ death_, and death is freedom.

“A missing hand won't kill you,” Brienne whispers. Then, she pushes Jaime back until she can look him in the face. She looks so _ noble_, that Jaime has trouble meeting her eyes. “People live with _ much _worse than this. You'll recover, and you'll learn to fight with your left hand.”

“And who's going to volunteer to teach the middle-aged, crippled Kingslayer?”

From the look on Brienne's face, Jaime realizes the answer is obvious--she means to do it herself. _ She’s so damn stubborn. _ She touches his cheek, a gesture that takes him back to that beach, only there's no blood sliding over his skin, just a week's worth of unshaven beard under her hand.

“_Gods, _wench, what am I going to do with you?”

Brienne smiles at him, and it's so _ comforting_. Jaime's right arm is useless between them, but the way Brienne is looking at him, with her eyes the color of the water that surrounds her home, is more soothing than the forced sleep he'd been in for the last few days. He leans in and kisses her freckled cheek, a ridiculously chaste gesture he isn't accustomed to. He can't remember ever kissing Cersei like that; maybe when they were children, and it would have been a _ brotherly _ kiss.

Even though he's _ maimed_, and must smell and look disgusting, a blush blossoms across Brienne's face. Worse yet, Jaime feels the same embarrassment creep up on him. _ It’s the fever_, he tells himself, but it definitely isn’t. Jaime can blame the pain, or the medicine, for his actions if he needs to.

“_What_?” Brienne replies like he's done something unbelievable. Of _ course _ she thinks that no one would want to kiss her. What else has she been led to believe?

“You’re a knight from a song,” Jaime smiles at her confusion, “Knights always win the favor of the damsel they save.”

“I'm not a knight,” she corrects.

_ Well, if I am supposed to evaluate her, she definitely passed. _

“Not yet, but you will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy the schmoopy angst train because we'll be riding it for a bit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Brienne's looking at her knees now, hair damp and falling in her eyes. She curls in on herself, and he curses everyone who ever made her feel that she needs to. He feels shame at having added to that burden._
> 
> _She's the Warrior and the Maiden, and something about that fills him with enough want to burn Cersei from his mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the land of angst and sexual tension! Time to make these idiots PINE away for each other. I think these two are at their best in when awkwardly naked in a bathtub, so there you go. I also _really_ wanted to explore how this conversation would go when they're at a totally different place in their relationship development.
> 
> Also, I think we hit peak permissiveness from Selwyn here ahahahaha.

On the seventh night, Jaime refuses the milk of the poppy when the maester tries to get him to drink it.

“_Enough_!” he practically barks.

The maester looks at Brienne and then back to Jaime.

“Give me the bottle,” Brienne holds out her hand. When she has it, she places it on the small bedside table.

“At least at night, ser; you need to _ sleep_.”

The maester skitters out the door of Brienne’s room, and Jaime sighs, resting his head against his bent knee. “There’s no way I’m sleeping without it, am I?”

Brienne sits on the edge of the bed, “Probably not, ser.”

“It’s like wading through fog, even in the daytime. I don’t like feeling addled.”

The pain in his wrist had dulled, some--he could _ almost _ ignore it if there was something to distract him. Sleep was the worst, if his wrist wasn’t throbbing, Jaime experienced phantom pains, which gave him a jarring sense of _ hope _ when he was disoriented. If his hand _ hurt _ that badly, then--

No, though, the stump was always there, wrapped in fresh bandages by Brienne each evening. Jaime looked away, not ready to face it. The grief at the loss of his hand goes through stages. He barters with the Warrior, and wonders fruitlessly if the old gods they worship in the North would better hear his pleas. He weeps, once, and Brienne sits beside him, strong hand between his shoulder blades until he calms. 

Steadfast Brienne of Tarth is the last line of defense between him and a demise by despair, infection, or clumsiness.

Brienne sits beside him on her bed in the afternoons and reads to him, books from her childhood--stories of knights and battles. The stories don't change reality, but they distract him from it, which is just as needed. She tells him about Tarth, points out all the landmarks from her terrace that they can see. She doesn't even get mad when he hurls a knife at her door in frustration after trying, and failing, to slice through a piece of chicken with his left hand.

“Do you need me to do it?” she asks, and _ fuck_, she means it earnestly. Mortified, Jaime lets her cut his food as his eyes burn, and nothing but stews and bite-size offerings appear at mealtimes after that. 

His mood improves, and regresses, and Brienne has the patience of the Mother in dealing with him. 

“I want a bath,” he tells her after a couple more days have elapsed.

Brienne looks up from where she's cleaning her sword on the floor. “A bath?”

“Yes. Like a tub of hot, soapy water to submerge myself into. Have you heard of it?” He made a _ joke _, and suddenly, he feels more like himself and less like a one-handed ghost of Jaime Lannister.

“We have baths,” she answers, standing up and running her palms down the front of her breeches. “I can have someone take you. Or, I can have something brought up.”

“Can _ you _take me?”

There’s not a lot of thought behind the words when Jaime blurts them--only that he’s been cooped up in this room for _ fucking days _ and needs something to entertain himself. Brienne, ever the maiden, flushes on every patch of skin visible. When she looks away from him, Jaime pays particular mind to behind her ears.

“S-ser, that’s _ not _\--”

“My lady, you’ve been my nursemaid, surely there’s no need for modesty between us now.”

“That’s _ different_,” Brienne protests, “you're hurt.”

Jaime stands from the bed, wobbling slightly. The lethargy from the milk of the poppy makes him feel weak, and he wonders how much strength could really be lost to him. It wounds his pride--forget holding a sword, Jaime can barely undo his clothes one-handed. How would he fasten armor? Saddle a horse?

“I would appreciate the assistance,” he answers, hoping Brienne will look at him. “What if I drown? A Lannister has never faced such an ignoble death.” He plays it off as a joke, but there is an intimacy in the way Brienne cares for him, and he would partake of it again, if she is willing.

Jaime sees the moment Brienne agrees; her brow softens, and she lets out a sigh. “Fine, come on.”

She surprises him by taking his right arm when they enter the corridor. Brienne's hand curls around his elbow, careful to avoid jostling the bandages. His weakness is protected between them, and something about that knots his stomach.

“You make a wonderful escort, my lady,” Jaime says, just to fill the silence. 

Really, he's tired by the time they get there. Brienne sends someone for towels, and clothes, and soap. The space is _ nice _ , quiet and dim, which is preferable because while Jaime wants to be _ clean _, he's not sure how closely he wants to see himself. The brief catch of his reflection in the water confirms it--he's scruffy and haggard, more like a caged animal than a golden lion.

Brienne's gaze is on him, so Jaime tugs at his shirt with his remaining hand. The garment is loose but still gets tangled.

“I can help--”

“_No. _”

She falls silent, looking away at the wall until he enters the water. He keeps his right hand on the ledge around the tub trying to keep the bandages dry. He can imagine the pain of submerging his wrist into water this hot.

“Wench,” he calls out when it's clear Brienne has become a statue. “Forgive me. It's not your fault I’m frustrated.”

Her answering smile is shaky, “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I'm not certain about that, but I'll defer to you.”

Brienne kneels beside him, feet bare on the stone floor. She takes a bucket, fills it with water, and dumps it over his head. Jaime sputters at the dousing, shaking his head and sending water flying. 

“That was your comeuppance.” 

If Jaime was feeling more hale, he'd drag her into the water next to him. Then again, even at his best, moving Brienne is no easy feat.

“Get in.”

“_What_?!”

“You heard me.” Brienne still looks skeptical, so Jaime makes a dramatic show of closing his eyes. “Fear not; your maidenly virtue will remain intact.”

To his _ extreme _surprise, he hears the rustle of clothes and a splash of water. When he opens his eyes, Brienne is seated on the bench, as far way as possible, knees pulled up in front of her chest.

Jaime wishes, then, that he hadn't closed his eyes. Brienne's broad shoulders are visible, but if he'd watched, he could have witnessed her muscled arms tugging her shirt over her head. He could have known, instead have wondered, if her freckles went beyond her collarbones. He _ knows _ her, has felt her strength against him in combat, and her gentleness in the dead of night when he wakes up gasping in pain.

Brienne's looking at her knees now, hair damp and falling in her eyes. She curls in on herself, and he curses everyone who ever made her feel that she needs to. He feels shame at having added to that burden.

She's the Warrior _ and _ the Maiden, and something about that fills him with enough _ want _ to burn Cersei from his mind.

* * *

The fact that they're sitting, unclothed, side-by-side, seems like a strange indication that Jaime _ doesn't _ see her as a woman. Brienne knows she is ill-suited to womanhood; she lacks the softness and delicacy. And, having spent _ so long _ wanting to be seen as a knight, as a _ warrior _ , to wish Jaime wasn't looking at her like a comrade-in-arms is so, _ so _contradictory.

Jaime smirks at her, “See, it's not so bad.”

“The water is nice,” Brienne answers to distract herself from the wet, _ very naked _ man next to her.

Even unkempt, Brienne forgets to breathe looking at him. His grin, and the mischievous glint in his eyes, makes her feel more light-headed than the heat from the water. Not that she hasn't seen Jaime naked in the last week, but Brienne makes an effort _ not _ to look down--the stream doesn't conceal that much, and she might faint if--

He grabs a chunk of soap and attempts to wash his hair, making a frustrated huff when the soap plunks into the water, and he has to fish it out. 

“_Seven hells_.”

Brienne recognizes his frustration--struggling with a knife, with clothes, with things Jaime hadn't even thought of yet. She forgets her modesty and moves until their bare legs bump together. The contact makes Jaime look up; Brienne flushes as she notices his gaze lingering on her under the water.

“Let me help.”

“Am I a _ child_?”

“No,” Brienne lathers soap on her hands and into Jaime's hair, a darker gold that nearly touches his shoulders now that it's wet. He hums and leans closer to her as she digs her fingers into his scalp. Pulling her fingers to the ends of the strands quickly becomes a guilty pleasure, and she wonders how long she can keep it up under the guise of utility. “Things will get easier.”

“...They never do.”

When Brienne dumps a bucket of water over his head, clearing the soap, she expects the contact between them to end.

“There. Now you're clean.”

Jaime doesn't move away, though; instead, he drops his wet head onto her collarbone. It's a mirror of the night in her room, only _ there had been clothes _ then. She grips the bench beneath her. Sitting like this is _ definitely _ improper, despite the sinful rush of enjoyment it gives her.

“Brienne, do you want to know why I killed Aerys?”

“I--_what _?”

“I'm sure you've _ wanted _ to ask, but you're so proper that you never would. You're probably the first person to care about the truth of it.”

“I--I have wondered,” she admits, “you're honorable, so I can't help but think there was some justification.”

“They did call him the _ Mad _King.”

“You were still _ sworn _ to serve him.”

Jaime stiffens, “Absolute loyalty is for _ children _.”

Brienne isn't sure what to say, so she replies, “Perhaps.”

She's probably said the wrong thing; Jaime thinks her naive and will pull away from her, back behind that cavalier Lannister attitude he wears so well. 

“Aerys used to burn people alive in the throne room. Some were criminals, some weren’t. It depended heavily on the day. Have you ever heard, or _ smelt _, a person being burned alive?” 

“N-no.”

“It's...not pleasant. I watched Aerys burn Rickard Stark _ in his armor _ . Sometimes, he just _ laughed _ the entire time. My duty was to stand there, keeping his counsel and ensure his safety.”

“That's…_horrible_.” Brienne keeps her hands twisted together in her lap under the water, unsure of what Jaime expects from her. He hasn't moved from where his head is bowed against her.

_ “That’s _ what the white cloak is--a snare made of oaths. If you keep them all, you break one eventually. The more you struggle against them, the tighter they get. ”

“Ser--”

“When my father brought Lannister troops to the gates of King’s Landing, Aerys ordered me to bring him my father’s head, as a sign of loyalty.” Jaime pauses, takes a deep, shuddering breath, “There was wildfire under the city, from Flea Bottom to the Sept of Baelor. So many people live there, and Aerys was going to burn _ everything _ that day. So, I slit his throat.” 

“Why didn't you try and explain?”

Jaime tilts his head so he looks up at her; his eyes make her think of wildfire, now, and maybe it's an apt comparison for the feeling they send through her. “If you'd seen Ned Stark's face when he walked into the Red Keep, you'd understand that there was no point.” 

“That's not _ fair _ ,” she shakes her head, “you saved _ everyone _, and they branded you an oathbreaker, and--”

“--a Kingslayer. It's the truth. Why is it that no one names Robert an oathbreaker? He tore the realm apart, yet I am the one with shit for honor.”*

She knows the world is cruel, has experienced her fair share of it, but to live with the weight of _ that _injustice for seventeen years.

“Ser, why did you decide to tell me?”

Jaime pulls his head up, and Brienne would drown herself in the tub if she thought it would save her the mortification of having Jaime just _ staring _at her. 

“It’s your dour expression, wench; it makes a man want to confess his sins.” 

* * *

Brienne convinces him to take his meals in the hall with everyone else. So, Jaime sits beside her and Lord Selwyn, and struggles, left-handed, with the contents of his plate. He notices Brienne watching him, sometimes, an offer to help probably on the tip of her tongue.

She’s kind, like that, and Jaime will come to rely on her for it if he doesn’t guard against it.

“There’s no shame in needing help,” Lord Selwyn tells Jamie one morning, “And, as a blessing to you, my daughter is kind. If she finds you worthy of aid, accept it.”

The advice is _ so _anathema to any wisdom Tywin Lannister would impart to his children.

“Are you sure Lady Brienne is a good judge of character?”

Selwyn laughs, “I assure you, she is.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Jaime stabs at a roasted potato with a fork in his left hand, “It's hard to think so when I take five minutes to lace up my boots.”

Jaime isn't sure what to make of Lord Selwyn’s permissiveness. Jaime’s only experience is watching the tight leash Tywin kept on Cersei, choosing who she would marry, and when and where she would go. Cersei resented the chains of her gender, and pushed against them whenever possible. Sometimes, Jaime wonders if _ he’s _ part of Cersei’s defiance--her control over him, her other half, is because she wants to _ be _ him. Jaime does all the things Cersei can’t do herself.

_ Well_, he thinks, staring down at the stump in his lap, _ our symmetry is ruined, now. I wonder what she will say? _

Lord Selwyn never inquires about Jaime’s continued presence in Brienne’s room. In fact, if he notices, and surely he _ must _, Jaime has seen no indication of it. Jaime wonders, sometimes, how far he could push that hospitality. Would her father be as accommodating if he thought they were fucking? 

What started as a necessity became routine, and Jaime submits to Brienne’s pestering with minimal haranguing. Now, he’s grown shamefully accustomed to Brienne on the other side of her bed. Some nights, he considers reaching for her, wondering if she’d let him rest his head between her shoulder blades, or put an arm around her, even the one that ended with no hand. Jaime always wanted to hold Cersei, but there was never enough _ time _ , and she always pushed him away after. “You’re such a _ romantic_,” Cersei would say as she shooed him out of her room.

Or, maybe, Brienne would wrap an arm around _ him_\--let him curl against her and use her strength to bolster his own.

* * *

"Come train with me."

"No," Jaime answers automatically, "what's the point?"

Brienne crosses her arms; Jaime is looking out the window at the sea. Even now that he's up and moving about, most of his day is spent moping around. She's trying to be gracious, but it's trying in places.

"To regain what was taken from you."

Jaime swivels his head to look at her; his expression is the angry, frustrated one she's grown accustomed to. "Unless training with you can regrow my sword hand, I don't see how what you're saying is possible."

"You have _ two _ hands, ser."

He stands, stomping over to Brienne until they are inches apart. Jaime means to look imposing, a lion cornering his prey, but she doesn't budge from her spot--he's still shorter than her, and she can still knock him over. A year ago, the posturing might have intimidated her.

"A left hand that can barely clothe myself. I can't even _ fuck my own hand _properly. What hope do I have of wielding a sword?"

"You can _ practice_," Brienne tries to ignore the reference to Jaime pleasuring himself, and fails spectacularly if the heat in her cheeks is any indication.

"And _ you're _ going to help me?"

This conversation is _ horrible _ ; Brienne meant to offer to aid in combat, and now they are talking about something _ decidedly _different than swordplay.

"_Yes_," she shouts, "If you'll stop being such an _ ass _about it." 

“Is _ that _ the sort of activity the Maid of Tarth assists with?”

She can't even think of a response that isn't laced with innuendo, so she snaps her mouth shut. Jaime laughs until there’s a mad, desperate, edge to the sound, like it could become a sob at any breath. He reaches up to wipes at his eyes with his right hand, pauses, then switches to the left. The second Jaime switches arms, the realization in his eyes as though he’s remembering the event all over again, is enough to make Brienne feel like she’s going to cry.

“Let’s try,” Brienne puts on the most mulish expression she can muster, “just for a while.”

* * *

"Tarth...isn't known for its martial prowess."

Jaime observes the length of the armory, which looks like a closet compared to that of King's Landing or Casterly Rock. "Tarth produced the likes of you, though."

Brienne cheeks redden in their usual blotchy way, and she takes two wooden practice swords from the rack. "Sir Goodwin, our master-of-arms, trained me here, much to my septa's despair."

"Is your septa still alive? I'd love to have a word with her."

"No, she passed before I left for King's Landing. It's probably for the best that she can't see me now." Brienne holds out one of the swords.

"Lord Selwyn is very proud of you."

Brienne looks skeptical. “Father deserves a _ better _daughter, or a son. My brother drowned as a child, and now he only has me.”

_ Only you is still quite a lot_.

Jaime follows her to the courtyard. The wooden sword lacks the heft of steel and feels alien in his left hand. He can imagine a sword hilt in his right--feel his fingers curling around it, like a phantom pain from a dream.

“I haven’t held a wooden sword in over twenty years.” Suddenly, he’s a green page again.

“I know, ser, that it’s beneath you, but--”

Jaime shakes his head. “No, wench, you’ve the right of it. I only have one fucking hand left, better not to give me steel.”

“Ser--”

“Wielding cutlery is a bit of a feat lately. It’s a good thing I’ve you to protect me, my lady.”

Brienne can’t tell if he’s embarrassed, angry, or both. They’ve done this scene a hundred times, nearly every morning for a year. Brienne, an immovable rock in her armor, and Jaime, goading her until she loses her restraint. If he makes her mad enough, or flustered enough, she’ll give him an opening. Even now, she’s holding her wooden sword, knuckles white, like a real, lethal threat is coming at her.

She advances, maybe with more trepidation than usual, but Jaime can tell from Brienne’s movements she doesn’t pity him. Even if she beats him soundly, which she will, he'd rather yield to her than know she let him win. He does his best to block her strikes and counter her, but his disadvantage highlights just how _ good _ she is.

His left hand is slow, and awkward. It’s the fucking penultimate frustration of the last two weeks--to not be able to cut his food, or lace his boots, or wash his hair, those are indignities he can weather. He’s a Lannister; he can _ pay _someone to lace his fucking boots. 

To not be able to fight, though, that’s a loss of _ identity _ , and no amount of Lannister gold can bring it back. He feels _ alive _ while fighting, and is suddenly terrified that the feeling is lost to him.

_ I was that hand_.

Brienne presses him until his shirt is soaked and he’s gasping for air. His right arm aches from all the movement, and he collapses into a heap at her feet. Yielding to her doesn’t shame him, but the _ why _ of it does.

“I was better at _ ten_,” he pushes his sweaty hair out of his face.

“And how did you get from your skill at age ten to...before?”

“Practice.”

“You’ll get there again.”

“This isn’t _ fair_,” he knows how petulant he must sound. Brienne hears it, too, because she kneels next to him and places both wooden swords off to the side.

“No, ser, it isn't--” Brienne starts, and Jaime shakes his head--the pretense of formality between them needed to cease.

“No more _ ser_.”

“But--”

“When we go back to King’s Landing, it’ll be your sword, not mine, that gets us there safely." Her mouth opens in protest, and Jaime waves his still-bandaged stump at her. “We’ve shared a bed, wench. You washed my hair and cleaned up gods-knows what other messes I made of myself. I think we’re past courtly formality.” 

“Jaime, then.” The syllables sound fond, and she never, ever calls him _ Kingslayer_. 

“Good. That’s one less thing to be frustrated about. I should have appreciated our training sessions more.”

He really _ is _going to miss sparring with her. Maybe there’s a way to appreciate it now, but he can’t see it.

“I will miss them, too, as they were, at least.”

“It’s odd to think that the hand that killed Aerys isn’t a part of me anymore.”

Frustration swells through him, again, and Jaime thinks of doing something rash, like pinning Brienne to the cobblestones and kissing her. She’s close enough that it would be easy, and maybe it would supplant his feelings of impotence with something else. Then again, she’s stronger than him with _ two _ hands, so perhaps she would reverse it, push _ him _ down, and that would be just as good. She’s not Cersei, which was so, _ so _ strange at first, something Jaime thought himself incapable of.

It’s not the same as fighting, but it could be a battle in its own right. Fucking carries the same thrill--energy singing through his veins that needs put to use. There’s nothing, _ nothing _ for this pent-up frustration other than action. Tyrion and Cersei drown their woes in drink, more similar in that regard than they’d like to think, but that has never been any respite for him. 

Is Brienne the same? Has her maidenly, proper mind ever thought of _ anything _ that way?

“I’m...frustrated,” Jaime says, eventually. The multiple implications can hang in the air between them for Brienne to notice, or not notice.

“Well, what do you usually do when you feel like this?”

“Grab a sword. What do _ you _ do?”

Brienne pauses in thought, “Pummel something, I guess. That doesn’t work here, though.”

“The next best thing is fucking someone.”

_ Someone _ will mean _ Cersei _to Brienne, and Jaime regrets the rashness of his words.

Brienne stares at him, all wide, blue eyes. What the fuck is he even doing? He's a one-handed cripple, fifteen years her senior, who has only been with one woman who happens to be his _ sister. _ If wanting Brienne was bad before, circumstances have _ not _ improved it.

"Cersei isn't here," Brienne answers after a prolonged pause where Jaime regrets his life choices. 

Then, suddenly, Jaime doesn't care anymore. Let Brienne reject him, if that's her wont. Let her think him disgusting, if this is the last secret that she can't abide. There's nothing left to teach her, which is a blessing because he's lost his ability. He can knight her and send her away. It will hurt him, but not worse than the loss of his hand.

"I'm not talking about fucking Cersei."

Brienne expression shifts to resoluteness, and Jaime's heart flutters with traitorous _ hope_, the first he's felt in ages, since long before the loss of his hand.

"I'm not here to relieve your _ frustrations. _ Tarth is not without its whorehouses, if _ that's _what you want."

Then, Brienne takes the practice swords and leaves Jaime there, sitting on the ground.

* * *

Brienne can't remember her mother's face, and doesn't often think of her. Right now, though, she wishes there was another woman she could talk to. She has no sisters, not even a female friend who could act as a companion. 

Even _ if _ her septa was alive, Brienne can imagine how that conversation would go. She always told Brienne the best she could hope for was a man who wanted to rule Tarth and found enough value there that he could suffer her to produce heirs. She was not beautiful, and no knight or lord would look at her and want her favor. 

Jaime likes to tease her--she's an easy target because she embarrasses easily and visibly. It's never occurred to Brienne that he might _ actually _ want her, even as a distraction. A snide voice in the back of her mind tells her she should be _ grateful_; Jaime is more than the likes of her could ever hope for. If he wants to bed her, even just once, why not let him? She can imagine Jaime touching her, easily, and would welcome it if she wasn't so pig-headed. Her virtue doesn't matter--no more matches will be made for her, and someone is unlikely to fall in love with her. 

Jaime looked hurt, though, when she left him there in the practice yard.

Brienne knows she has a soft heart, can remember Ser Goodwin telling her she was a maiden on the inside, regardless of her stature. She doesn't want to be someone's distraction. She wants to be _ loved _, if such a person even exists for her, and Jaime belongs to Cersei. It is better to be alone than to be with someone in half-measures.

She goes to find her father because she can't think of anyone else to talk to, even though she doesn't know how she will explain any of this to him.

_ You see, Father, I think Jaime wants to bed me, but not in a serious way. _

_ He's _ very _ unavailable, you see, between his sister and his Kingsguard oaths. _

_ Will anyone else ever have me? _

_ What do you think I should do? _

Selwyn is in his study, looking over a pile of parchment. Brienne always forgets how much administrative work goes into being a lord. While she was out beating training dummies with sticks, he was here managing tenants and crop yields. 

He looks up when she knocks on the doorframe. "Brienne, come in."

Brienne sits across the desk and twists her hands together in her lap. "Father, do you think I'm good at making my own decisions?"

Selwyn studies her for a long, quiet period before replying, "Did I object when you wanted to go to King's Landing?"

"No, but that doesn't mean you approved."

"People told me I shouldn't let you; that it was improper for a girl to want to be a knight. They said you get mocked, at best, and raped, at worst."

She finches at the word _ rape _, and thinks of the bet, and being called “Kingslayer's whore,” and the multitude of other jeers and japes at her expense. “There have been times when I longed for home, and thought to give up. Permission to be there doesn’t mean I am wanted.”

Selwyn nods, “And _ that _is why I let you go. You are determined, and I won’t have anyone say I stood in the way of that.”

Brienne doesn’t really want to get misty-eyed, so she just whispers, “Thank you.”

“I was concerned when you wrote me saying you were going to be the Kingslayer’s squire. I thought, ‘how could they assign my daughter, who is so principled, to someone with so poor a reputation?’”

“I considered...not telling you,” she admits, “but assumed the news would reach you, somehow.”

Her father laughs, “Ser Jaime isn’t quite what I expected. And, most importantly, you two seem compatible.”

Brienne _ knows _ her father means compatible as knight and squire, which is _ true _\--even if it started as spite to prove everyone wrong. Jaime is good to learn from, and Brienne still believes he can teach her things, even without his swordhand. He’s also the first person in King’s Landing she can call a friend.

“His hand…” she starts, “I made him hold a practice sword today.”

He laughs again, probably at her word choice. “And how did he fare?”

“Well, honestly. Although, I don’t think he feels that way.”

“Give him time, and try and forgive his outbursts.”

When she leaves the study, Brienne feels better; her father had given her good advice, even though their conversation never touched the core of what is troubling her. Jaime isn’t in the practice yard anymore, nor is he in her room. 

_ I’m going to leave him be for a while_.

He appears at dinner, seated next to her as usual, talking with her father like nothing is wrong. Jaime laughs as her father tells a story and chats with the others at the table. If Brienne didn’t know his right arm was in his lap, unmoving from under the table, she’d think nothing was wrong. If anyone looks sullen and out of place, it’s her. Although, everyone at Evenfall was surely used to her by now.

Jaime comes to her room, after, another step in their routine. Brienne decided not to seek him out if he didn’t appear. 

“Brienne?” He looks uncertain, so she nods to him and gathers the linen and salve the maester gave her. 

When she sits on the bed, Jaime comes and sits next to her. The first few days, the stump had horrified her--not because she was disgusted, but because of the sheer _ loss _of it, the abrupt end at his wrist and all it signifies. Her hands are steady when she unwinds the bandages; it’s healing, and she’s grown accustomed to the sight.

“Go see the maester tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” he answers, “but less so.”

“I’m glad.” Brienne applies the salve and rewraps his wrist.

For the first time, Jaime watches her do it, golden head bowed so she can’t read his features. She wonders if something in their conversation earlier prompted Jaime to look.

The next day, it’s Jaime who hands her the wooden practice sword.

* * *

After a few days, the practice sword feels less cumbersome, and the movements more normal. It’s nothing compared to his prowess before, but it’s _ progress_.

And Brienne had agreed to help him again, after he made such an ass of himself the first day.

“Forgive me,” he tells Brienne one evening, “For the other day; I was untoward to you.”

“You were,” she agrees, “but I’m not certain you understand why.”

“I thought the...impropriety of the situation might bother you, or that I was the source of it.”

Brienne laughs, making Jaime wonder how far off the mark he landed. “I’ve been around men for years now, mocked for my gender _ and _ my appearance.” She’s blushing, now, “I may be a maid, but the mention of sex isn't going to offend me.”

“I should have known that.”

“It’s a jest to you, and a diversion, and because you’re _ yourself _, and would never lack for attention if you sought it out, you don’t see it how I do.” Brienne pauses, summoning the will to say what’s next. “I felt mocked, which I am accustomed to, but not from you. For all your irritations, you have always taken me seriously.”

Cersei, if she could get past the context of it, would laugh herself to tears; Tyrion would, too. Maybe it could be the building of a bridge between them. Not only did Jaime have no concept of how to court a lady, he had even less concept of how to reach Brienne.

“I wasn’t mocking you,” Jaime says in a rush, “I would _ never _ mock you, not earnestly.

“Jaime--”

“I keep _ thinking _about you.”

“That’s--”

Brienne may not be beautiful, but Jaime _ likes _her face, finds absolute comfort in looking upon her. She's fierce with a sword, and gentle when she needs to be.

“Brienne.” Her name comes out more desperate than he intended. “I...gave myself to Cersei, long ago, before I even understood what that meant. Everything, from joining the Kingsguard on, was to be near her.” 

If his words bother her, Brienne doesn't let on, she just looks down at him and waits for him to continue.

“I'm not sure I can be that man anymore.” He holds his right arm up, forcing himself to look at reality. “But, now, I'm unsure what I am. I think I could use your guidance.”

Brienne sees something in him that Jaime can't find himself, a glimmer of some long-forgotten righteousness--with her help, maybe he can nurture it until he believes it himself. 

“I can manage that.” She grabs his elbow, holding his arm still, and they both stare at the absent space. She doesn't flinch, but of course she wouldn't. "You're a bit of a mess, anyway."

Jaime wants to kiss Brienne; it doesn’t even need to go beyond that. She’s looking at him, mouth slightly parted, and it makes him think she’ll let him. With Cersei, he wanted to possess her, but he just wants Brienne to exist beside him, to invite him into her space. If he kisses her, he’ll give himself to her; it will be the death of one thing, and the birth of another. Jaime wants to be _ better _ when he does it. 

So, he embraces her instead, looking over her shoulder at the dark sea beyond her room. Brienne is still for just a moment before she returns the gesture. She’s his waypost, sword in hand, and she continually finds whatever dark place he needs dragged from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I totally lifted this line from ASoS.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You deserve better.” _
> 
> _Selfishly, Brienne thinks_ I could do better. _It would be as easy as breathing to love Jaime, to reward his faithfulness and honor better than those who called him Kingslayer, better than Cersei or Lord Tywin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tarth adventure ends, but the pining certainly does not. :D
> 
> Although, I think the idiots might be getting somewhere.

Tyrion is the first person Jaime finds when they return to King’s Landing. 

“Lady Brienne’s raven said you were fine, but I was still worried.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime replies, and Tyrion hugs him before surveying him at arm’s length.

“Welcome to the club of misfit Lannisters. There’s only two members now, but your induction will save me from needing to occupy all the officer roles.”

“Can I quit this club?’ He sits in his usual chair in Tyrion’s room; then, wine is poured, and the glass feels wobbly in his left hand, but Jaime manages.

“No, it’s a lifetime membership,” Tyrion replies. “Are you trying to grow a wildling beard? Or perhaps a _ literal _ lion’s mane?”

"It's not _ that _ bad." He’d grown used to the beard, now--weeks of recovery put shaving from his mind, and by then it was just _ there_. “I’m not interested in slitting my throat trying to shave it with my left hand.”

“Hire it done, brother. Lannisters can afford to have someone wipe the shit from our asses, if we want.” 

Lannister coin buys favors, influence, or silence, but Jaime has rarely used it for comfort or luxury. Tyrion is the exact opposite, wielding the family wealth for opulence and hedonism. Jaime isn’t sure which is better, only that Tyrion looks like he has a _ hell _ of a lot more fun.

“I’ll learn to do it myself,” Jaime replies.

“Or,” Tyrion leans closer, “you could make your giant squire do it.”

_ She’d do it, if I asked_, Jaime thinks, and half wants to, if only that it would bring her close to him and certainly fluster her.

“Brienne has suffered enough with my ineptitude over the last few weeks.”

Tyrion falls quiet and looks at him seriously, “I’m sorry about your hand, Jaime.”

“Thank you. It’s--” _ What _ is it, though? It’s not fine. “...improving.”

“Good.”

Jaime tells Tyrion of his time on Tarth, wine cup emptying at a faster pace than usual. Wordlessly, his brother refills it and lets Jaime continue his story. He talks of his despair, knowing that Tyrion, like Brienne, won’t judge him weak or foolish. “I’m lost without that hand. What good is a knight who can’t fight?”

“Like a dwarf without his cock.”

He thinks of Brienne’s reaction to those words--she’d blush and roll her eyes, but then she’d laugh. “I’m not certain that’s the same...at all.”

“It’s identical, and you’re a fool if you think otherwise.”

“I’m trying to find a new path for myself,” Jaime drinks another gulp of wine, acrid on his tongue. For all the Lannister gold, Tyrion should spend some on a better vintage. “I don’t know what that is, though.”

“They can’t dismiss you from the Kingsguard for infirmity or injury.”

“That doesn’t mean I can fulfill my oaths, though. Without my swordhand, I am more prop than knight, at best, and a liability in combat, at worst. And no one wants to parade me around in my white cloak with my reputation.”

“You suddenly care about your oaths?”

It’s a joke, but the half-truth of it stings. “I’ve always cared about _ some _of them..”

“You could be Master of War,” Tyrion suggests.

“_Who _ would appoint me there, if I was even interested? Certainly not Robert, and it’s not as though Jon Arryn holds any great love for me. And how, exactly, could I quit the Kingsguard?”

“Father’s influence could manage it.”

“If such a thing is even _ allowed_, which it isn’t, Father will _ immediately _ talk marriage and inheriting the Rock.”

“Go, then, and inherit fucking Casterly Rock. Marry a girl nicer than our sister, which won’t be a challenge to find, and fuck her until there’s a dozen tiny Lannisters filling every room. Ask Lady Brienne, I bet she'd do it."

“I--” he starts, intending to follow with _ love Cersei _, but feels no compulsion to finish the thought. “...Maybe I should consider it.”

Jaime’s confident that _ neither _ of the two women he’s ever wanted would have any interest in Tyrion’s domestic fantasy.

* * *

Brienne’s old routine feels new again, and the morning after they return to King’s Landing, she wakes, alone, in her much smaller squire’s quarters, and stares at the ceiling. She misses the sound of the sea through her open window, a sound she’d grown up with and missed terribly when she first came to King’s Landing.

The sea’s here too, but the din of the city drowns it out.

She stretches, reaches the limits of her bed easily, feet dangling over the edge. At home, she’d bump into Jaime if she reached the full span of her arm, which is why she never did. Now there’s a wall between them, and Brienne wonders if she can hear him rustling around if she presses her ear to it. 

Hopefully, he slept well; she’d grown used to shaking him awake if he had a nightmare. Even if they never really touched, having him there was comforting.

Brienne dresses, and forages for breakfast, ending up with a hand pie and an apple in the page’s dining hall. It's quite different than breakfast at home, even though she usually sat there silently, too. Loras sits down next to her; she hasn’t seen him in _ months. _

“Lady Brienne.”

“_Ser _ Loras,” she answers, “Congratulations.” She always thought it would chafe her if Loras beat her, but the time on Tarth pushed the thought from her mind. Being a knight doesn’t _ end _, so waiting a bit longer won’t hurt her.

“Sounds like you had an eventful quest,” he sits down across from her.

“Has word spread _ that _ quickly?”

“The Kingslayer returns to King’s Landing with one less hand,” Loras answers, and Brienne supposes that it should be obvious. “I’ve love to hear the details.”

So, Brienne graces Ser Loras Tyrell with a very, very curated version.

After Loras leaves, there's nothing she's explicitly supposed to be doing, so she sends out her laundry, cleans her sword, her armor, and her room, leaving the window open to air the space out. 

All of this takes less than half the morning.

Impatient, she knocks on Jaime's door. She's _ his _squire, so he should give her a task. 

There's no answer.

Jaime could be anywhere--with Tyrion, or Tywin, or Ser Barristan. It's _ early _, though, and Jaime has never been a morning person in the year Brienne has known him.

_ Maybe he's with Cersei_.

It's a thought Brienne doesn't want--it's not her business where Jaime is. If he's with Cersei, and he's happy, then she should be happy for him. That's what friends do. If there was _ something _ between them, they left it behind on Tarth. It’s another thing she can miss: like her father, and the view of the sea from her room.

* * *

Jaime waits for Cersei to send for him, which she does, on the second afternoon after they return to King’s Landing. Before, he would have ran to her the moment he set foot back in the city, eager to steal an hour of her time, to reaffirm what was between them. 

She’ll notice the fact that Jaime didn’t seek her out.

He tries to parse the _ why _ of not going to her as he walks to her apartments, and it comes down to one, clear reason--Jaime doesn’t want her to see his maiming. He can avoid showing her the wound itself by keeping his wrist tucked on his shirt sleeve, but the absence of the hand is impossible to conceal.

What he wants is for Cersei to be like when they were children at Casterly Rock. She had more fortitude, more bravery than him, and Jaime never minded her leading him. It was Cersei’s idea to jump in the cages of their grandfather’s lions in the dungeons below the keep. It was Cersei who snuck across the castle to his room after they were separated. It was Cersei who told him that joining the Kingsguard would keep them _ together. _ She made their decisions, and they were _ good _ because the choices kept them together, kept them whole.

Jaime wants _ that _Cersei to be behind the door to her room. 

That Cersei would hold him, unbothered by his vacant right wrist, or the fact that he felt purposeless now. She would stroke his hair and whisper all the ways she’d fix what was wrong, that Lannisters always pay their debts, and there’d be a reckoning for those who hurt him. Then, she’d touch him, and they’d be _ one _, and that would be right and absolute.

Was that version of his sister ever real, though?

What she was, and what Jaime wants her to be, contrast so sharply with what _ is _, that he wonders what other facets of Cersei he'd willful ignored or excused.

Jaime’s a second away from knocking when the door opens, and Lancel Lannister nearly smashes headlong into him in his apparent hurry to exit the room.

“_Ser! _” Lancel blurts, glancing back through the door before looking at Jaime and running down the hall.

Cersei doesn't look happy to see him. She's beautiful, as usual, hair in golden waves, wearing an emerald green dressing gown. Whatever her personality, Jaime isn't sure how to stop _ wanting _; it's so ingrained in him.

The linens of her bed are askew, as though someone had just taken a tumble in them. Jaime _ knows _ what those bed linens look like after such an activity--they’ve fucked, wrecked the bed in their fervor, and then Cersei ushered him out the door many, many times. In fact, Jaime has seen that bed in much, _ much _worse condition. 

"You didn't come to me," Cersei says, a note of disappointment in her tone; she’s never had to _ summon _ him before. 

Jaime isn’t listening, though--he’s thinking of Lancel, red-faced and running out the door. “You--you’re _fucking _cousin Lancel?”

_ She’s fucking someone _ other _ than me. Is this the first time? _

Cersei shrugs, “A pale shade, unneeded now that you’ve returned, brother. Close the door and come here.”

_ Unneeded. _ Jaime listens, shutting and bolting it behind him. Before, he would have known what this meant. Now, he doesn't. “And what is it _ exactly _ that you need?” 

Cersei steps closer to him, “_You _. My other half.”

“Do you, though?” Jaime asks, “I was gone for _ two months _ , and you couldn’t do without my cock for that long, so you _ fucked Lancel _?” Lancel wasn’t Cersei’s mirror image, but he had the Lannister green eyes and golden hair. “He was my substitute.”

“Two months is a long time,” Cersei replies, “Besides, you’re fucking your cow of a squire. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”

"I'm _ not_,” Jaime nearly yells. He’d _ thought _ about it, certainly, and lived with the shame that accompanied his lust. “I’d _ never _ betray you. There’s _ only _ you.” He sounds _ hurt _, and Cersei will latch onto it. 

“You’re so _ simple _ , sometimes,” Cersei reaches out to him, and Jaime steps back like her touch will burn him. “Are you jealous of Lancel? Jealous at the thought of him fucking me? You shouldn’t be. We’re _ one _\--other people don’t matter.”

That _ logic _ \--Cersei used it their whole lives, and Jaime never questioned it; they were born together, meant to live and die as one. Jaime lived by that creed, and to think that Cersei had gone outside that, not because she’d fallen in love with someone else, and not because of her duty to Robert, but just because Lancel was _ close enough _.

“I’m--” he starts. _ Not your mirror_. _ There's something else, something more. _

“Come here; let’s not speak on this any longer.”

She's appraising him, and he puts his left hand over the stump. Brienne would stand on his right; she'd ridden beside him on that side all the way home; they never spoke about it, but he knew it was intentional.

"Cersei--"

"_This _ is that cow's fault," she spits, gesturing to his arm.

"It's not."

"And how, exactly, is it not?"

"I'd be _ dead _ without her." 

Cersei crosses her arms, "But you wouldn't have even _ gone _ to fucking Tarth if not for _ her_."

"It just _ happened_." Jaime has tried to accept that fact over the last few weeks; his hand is gone, and it's not because he deserved it. There's no _ meaning_. The world is just senseless and cruel. "It's no one's fault except the person who did it, and he's _ very _dead."

"I hope you made him suffer." 

It's only for a second, but hearing Cersei seeking vengeance for him makes him happy.

"Not me."

"You had _ her _ do it?"

Excruciating pain and blood loss aside, Brienne cutting down those bandits was a sight to behold. She was fierce, and ruthless and, damnit, he was fucking _ proud _ of her. 

"It's not like I was in any position to do it myself."

“You let a _ woman _save you in combat.”

Cersei’s scorn of Brienne’s skill was unclear to him until just this moment. _ She really is jealous_. Brienne has something she doesn’t, and his sister will try and tear Brienne down for it. Cersei craved power, either through combat or politics. If she could have wielded a sword, Jaime has no doubt that she would have done so. She _ thinks _ she has their father’s political acumen, and might have, if Tywin ever looked past her gender and fostered it. Tyrion had the same potential, but their father discounted both of them.

No, Tywin pins his hopes on Jaime, who never wanted his father's vision for him.

“I protected her, and then she protected me.” 

“I’d hate to experience what happens when the beast _ isn’t _ trying to keep someone safe.” Cersei’s eyes move downward, “You’re useless now.”

“I am, but they can’t dismiss me from the Kingsguard for it.”

“You’d remain in _ that _ state? Father can get you out of it.”

Jaime has been stripped of his shame and his glory. _ What else am I supposed to be? _

“For you, I would have. I swore an oath _ just _ to break it because you asked me to.”

They’d fucked on her wedding day to Robert--Jaime remembers it clearly. Cersei whispering _ we’re together _ and _ he doesn’t matter _ . Robert _ does _ matter, though; he’s the king, sitting on a throne Jaime dirtied his white cloak for. A fortuitous end to a rebellion started because he wanted some Stark girl’s cunt. 

_ Kingslayer, _ Robert had called him at his coronation. _ Don’t make a habit of it_.

Robert’s three heirs being bastards, and Robert being too fucking stupid to notice, always gave Jaime a sense of vindication. _ Look, _ look _ at what happened under your nose, you ass_.

“You always did follow me around like a little pet,” Cersei replies, mouth curled in a cruel smile. “Although, now I suppose you’re a lion missing a paw.”

Jaime has never hated his sister before, has never seen her from the same angle as Tyrion. Being the object of her scorn compels him to silence--_ this _ is how she treats anyone deemed lesser, and he was a fool to think he was above the possibility.

“Go to the goldsmith--they’re making you a hand so we don’t have to look at you moping around with your wrist in your sleeve.”

* * *

The hand is fucking _ gold_.

Jaime has to laugh when he sees it--it’s exactly the type of thing Cersei, or even Tywin would commission. Take the weakness and flaunt it, truss it up in Lannister gold. If he has to wear a false hand, make it intimidating. The goldsmith is proud of it, too, boring Jaime with several minutes of the details of its composition.

It can’t hold a sword, so Jaime’s unsure of its function, aside from the comfort of others.

The fucking thing is heavy, too, and he can’t imagine it’s going to be terribly comfortable to wear. The goldsmith asks him to try it on, so Jaime obliges. It’s leather straps go halfway up his forearm and dig into his skin immediately. The weight of it pulls his arm down, another burden in place of what he actually needs.

He goes back to the White Sword Tower, wondering if Brienne is around. They haven’t seen each other since the pages stabled their horses the afternoon prior. Jaime had gone to see Tyrion, which turned into an _ entire night _of drinking until the dull ache of his wrist was softened by inebriation. He’d woken up, slumped on a chaise in Tyrion’s room. Tyrion was still passed out when he left.

Brienne doesn’t answer when he knocks on her door, so Jaime makes his way to the yard where the squires and pages train. He can’t imagine her lounging in her room in the mid-afternoon, anyway. She’s there, out of her armor, surrounded by a gaggle of first-year pages. The boys are in a line, holding practice swords, and Brienne seems to be giving them an impromptu lesson.

_ This _is something Jaime wants to see, so he keeps his distance to remain unnoticed. What will the Kingslayer appearing do to the pages’ mood? Jaime remained largely unaffected by the pages and squires since joining the Kingsguard, since no one wanted an oathbreaker to mentor or teach them.

“No, like this,” Brienne instructs, and the pages repeat after her. Their movements are uncoordinated, but she never gets frustrated at having to correct them. It’s like her to be patient, but Jaime had never considered that Brienne would be good with children. His mind wanders to his own--especially Myrcella and Tommen. He would always be _ uncle _.

“Lady Brienne,” one asks her, “can a girl really be a knight?”

“I certainly hope so,” Brienne answers, “or I’ve been here for a long time for nothing.”

“Are you really the Kingslayer’s squire?” another asks.

_ He must have learned that name from his parents_.

“I am.”

“My father says he’s an oathbreaker.”

“He is, but sometimes, an oath needs to be broken to do the right thing.”

“Like when?” another asks.

“To protect people. Ser Jaime is as honorable a knight as you will find in the Seven Kingdoms; learn to judge people with your own eyes, not on gossip.”

The pages erupt into an argument at Brienne’s words, and it takes her a long time to get them back on track. The lesson continues; Jaime sinks down onto a crate to continue his observation.

_ She defended me--it was to a group of green pages, probably not more than thirteen summers old, but she _ defended _ me_. _ She told them I have honor. _

Both Cersei _ and _ Tywin would judge him for getting so emotional over some _ words_, but fuck them both. Never, in fifteen years, has _ anyone _ stood up for him.

* * *

“Have you been spying on me this whole time?” The pages have scattered, and Brienne walks over to him.

“I didn’t want to interrupt. I didn’t know you were good with children.”

Brienne blushes, “I-I’m not; it’s just the new pages, for some reason they find me entertaining.”

“You’re strong, and you listen to them. It doesn’t take much.”

“Would that _ my _ peers had treated me such.” Her first years in King’s Landing would have played out _ much _ differently.

Thank you,” Jaime says, looking up at her, “for defending me.”

“To the pages?” Brienne feels skeptical, “They’re children.”

“Who learn from their parents, and who will someday teach their children.”

Brienne holds a hand out to help Jaime up, tugging until he’s standing. “I only told them the truth--wait, is that a _ gold hand_?”

“_Oh _\--I forgot about it watching you,” Jaime holds up his right arm, “Cersei, or maybe father, or both. It’s--”

“...Ugly.”

“...Made for a Lannister.”

Brienne laughs, which starts Jaime laughing with her, and they pass a few minutes that way.

“Last night--” Brienne starts, thinking of Jaime not answering his door, but then realizes she’s prying.

“Tyrion,” Jaime answers, “I went to tell him we returned, but it’s _ Tyrion_. I woke up on his couch.”

Selfish, selfish relief floods Brienne. Imagining Jaime spending the night with Cersei feels like a knife between her ribs. She keeps telling herself she has _ no right_, and it keeps not working.

“I’ve never known you to overconsume.”

“It was good, to not think about _ this_, for a few hours,” he holds up the gold hand, “but we got too deep in our cups.”

“I wouldn’t think too hard on it.”

“I...saw Cersei this morning.”

“And?” Brienne holds her breath and braces for the answer.

“She fucked our cousin Lancel while we were gone.” 

“What?! _ Why_?”

Jaime shrugs, and gives her smile with no happiness behind it. “He was _ close enough _ to being me, so he...filled the void, I suppose.”

“That’s--” Brienne doesn’t even _ know _ what it is, “....cruel.”

“We’ve been...viewing it from two _ very _different vantage points for a long time. She’s--” he stops, takes a deep breath, “I think we’re---it’s done now.”

“You deserve better.” Selfishly, Brienne thinks _ I could do better _ . It would be as easy as breathing to love Jaime, to reward his faithfulness and honor better than those who called him _ Kingslayer_, better than Cersei or Lord Tywin. 

“It’s for the best. I’m not sure I could extricate myself without--but it _ hurts_.”

“Time will help.” After fourteen months as Jaime’s squire, and the time on Tarth, she can’t be a bystander to Cersei anymore. Brienne lowers her voice to a whisper, “This isn’t my place, and forgive me if my overstepping angers you, but I’d see you be _ happy_.”

He looks at her, and the struggle is plain on his face. Jaime had lost many things: a hand and with it, purpose, and now a lover and a sister. He needs to fill that void with new things, things he chooses for himself.

“I’m happy right now.”

_ Happy with you _ , Jaime doesn’t add, but from the smile on his face, Brienne _ hopes _ that’s what he means. There’s a dozen barriers between her and Jaime, but Brienne, for the first time, allows herself the space to daydream about it.

“Come, let’s pick up our swords.”

* * *

“I have an idea.”

Jaime and she were bickering about _ something _ when Tyrion’s voice interrupts them. Whatever the conflict was, it was so unimportant that Brienne’s forgotten it by the time she looks in Tyrion’s direction.

“We should decline, whatever it is; Tyrion’s ideas are always untoward.”

A look of mock-offense crosses Tyrion’s face, “Such insults, from my own _ brother_. Here I thought we were united together as the misfit Lannisters.”

“I never asked for membership in that club.”

“I suppose it has far too many whores and too much drink for your liking,” Tyrion replies. “Actually, I know someone I think you should train with, if Lady Brienne is willing to share.”

Tyrion’s meddling and insinuations about the two of them had grown more present since they’d returned from Tarth--every other comment when the three of them were together seemed to be about her relationship with Jaime. 

“_Share_,” Brienne repeats; at least she’d improved at not reacting so violently to the teasing. “Jaime doesn’t need my permission.”

“As my protector, though, my lady, shouldn’t you give your consent?” Jaime will embarrass himself to fluster her, or to follow-up on one of his brother’s jokes.

“You don’t need a prot--” Brienne starts, “Lord Tyrion, who is this person?”

Tyrion shrugs, “A sellsword I met somewhere; he’s quite creative.”

* * *

“_How _ exactly did you meet my brother?”

The sellsword, who’s just been introduced as Bronn, shrugs, “He recommended me a whore once, in Flea Bottom. You’d befriend the man, too, after _ that _ experience.”

Tyrion _ laughs _, and Brienne has an entire conversation with Jaime by raising her eyebrows.

“We’re in the presence of a lady, not a Flea Bottom whore,” Jaime answers.

Brienne shakes her head, “Pay me no mind.” She was getting _ very _ adept at ignoring lewd remarks. At least Bronn wasn’t directing it _ at _ her.

"As I was explaining the other day," Tyrion continues, "Jaime, you have a handicap now, whether you want to think of it that way, it's a fact."

"He's getting _ a lot _ better," Brienne protests. They practice _ every day,_ and Jaime really was leagues better with his left hand than when they began on Tarth.

Jaime smiles, and Brienne's accustomed to the giddy flip her stomach does. "Brienne, you don't have to sugar-coat it; I'll never be what I was; I've accepted it."

"Instead of moping about it, use it to your fucking advantage," Bronn chimes in.

"Turn your disadvantage into an advantage, and it can't be used against you," Tyrion's tone indicates personal experience.

Brienne knows the feeling, too. "Bronn might have a point. It's easier to focus on what you_ can _do."

It didn't help what _ other _ people perceived, but it was something.

"Lady Brienne, the wisest among us," Tyrion says, "If I had wine, I'd toast to you."

"So, Bronn, what did you have in mind?" Jaime asks.

"Well, not _ everyone _ fights all proper like you cunt knights do."

"We're _ knights_," Brienne argues, then realizes that it's technically not correct, "well, Jaime is, at least. Knights don't brawl in taverns."

"Come, my lady," Tyrion walks over the store stairway leading up from the beach, "let's observe."

Brienne scowls, but she follows Tyrion to sit on the steps. 

Bronn pulls out his sword, and Jaime does the same. The display that follows makes Brienne understand why Tyrion described Bronn as _ creative _. Jaime steps back, dodging Bronn's advances, but Bronn is startlingly unpredictable. Nothing about Jaime's reflexes have dimmed, but Brienne has trained with him enough that she recognizes the tells of his left-handed swordplay. His left arm is weaker, and when Bronn bears down, Jaime falters. At one point, Bronn trips him, and Jaime nearly hits the sand.

"That's _ cheap_," Jaime gasps, but he sounds like he's having fun.

"Exactly."

They continue, and Brienne grips her knees. There's something nerve-wracking about watching Jaime get trounced by a sellsword on a beach.

"Nervous for my brother?" Tyrion whispers, leaning into her.

Well, Brienne was never good at being oblique, "I--yes. It's not rational."

"Worry rarely is, and there's so many ridiculous ways to lose one's life."

Brienne nods, sight trained on Jaime. He lands a hit on Bronn. 

"My brother isn’t a fool, but sometimes his choices make him appear as one. He's kind, although he forgets it, and the only member of my family that isn't a cunt. Thank you for caring for him. He needs someone _ good_."

"I'm--we're not--"

Tyrion grins at her, "You _ are_, though."

Bronn tugs on Jaime's golden hand hard enough to dislodge it from his wrist; the moment startles him and leaves Bronn with an opening, which he uses to smack Jaime in the face with the hand.

Jaime stumbles, but stays upright. When he looks at Bronn, he has his left hand up to his face.

"Did you just _ fucking_\--?"

“Slap you with you golden hand?”

Jaime looks livid, and Brienne thinks he’s about to spout something about being a Lannister.

Bronn laughs, “Is the little lordling angry?”

“_Yes. _”

Brienne half stands, although she isn’t sure what she would do. Beat the shit out of Bronn, maybe? Tyrion grabs her arm, shaking his head when she looks down at him.

“See,” Bronn grins and returns the golden hand back to Jaime, “that’s fucking _ creative_.”

* * *

“There’s no _ fair _ way to kill a man,” Bronn tells him one afternoon, “and fucking _ honor _ doesn’t matter to a corpse.”

Jaime kind of thinks Bronn is an annoying cunt, but he can’t deny that he’s learning something. The place where his golden hand hit his face bruises nicely, but he would have never considered using it as a blunt weapon in combat. The third time they fight, Jaime manages to return the favor by bashing it against the side of Bronn’s head.

Neither Cersei or Tywin would want it used for that, which is _ delightful _.

Instead of being mad, Bronn laughs and says. “Nice job, you golden cunt.

Getting his ass handed to him by a sellsword isn’t something Jaime wants as a spectator sport, but it’s Brienne and Tyrion, so it’s fine. Tyrion is amused by every session, and on the second, he brings a wineskin and starts providing commentary. If re-enacting a drunken tavern brawl with Bronn makes him more resourceful in an _ actual _fight, then he can live with the indignity.

Jaime was _ probably _ too cocksure before, anyway, pride worn like a Lannister cloak on his back.

Brienne watches, arms crossed, as though daring Bronn to try something she’d disapprove of. She’s potective of him, and Jaime doesn’t know if it’s merited; he _ wants _ it to be. His swordhand is lost to him, but the fierceness of Brienne’s loyalty is a boon he wishes to keep. She could also kill Bronn with a single stroke of her blade, and wouldn’t need any low, sellsword tricks to accomplish it.

“Brienne, take my place for a second,” he calls to her one day. 

"_What_?"

Her incredulous _ what _ when he says something she finds absurd is one of his favorite things.

"You look offended by this exchange. Come, defend my honor, my lady." Jaime is happy to fall on his sword, either to tease Brienne or praise her.

"Jaime--"

"In songs, the knight never refuses the lady. Would you prefer a favor?"

"A woman?" Bronn looks skeptical. "I fuck women; I don't hit them."

Brienne stands, though, and Bronn's words probably compel her more than his do. She reaches for her sword 

"I wouldn't discount her because of her gender," Tyrion warns from his usual seat on the steps.

Brienne grips the hilt of her sword in both hands. Jaime must look wistful because when he sits down, Tyrion looks like he's about to heckle him. Brienne in combat with someone else is lovely, especially now that he's not bleeding out on the beach and can watch her. Bronn seems surprised, not by Brienne's agility, but by her sheer _ strength _. 

Jaime rests his chin in his remaining hand and sighs loud enough for his brother to hear.

"Jaime, I can't watch you make cow eyes over her anymore," Tyrion whispers, "just tell the woman you love her.”

"I--"

Brienne knocks Bronn to the ground, and Jaime knows the expression she's giving him--a glare and a small, satisfied smile. Bronn starts laughing, repeating "I yield."

"Never mention my gender again."

"_Fine_. I'll be kinder to your _ lady _, too."

_ That _ gets Tyrion started, and as he laughs with Bronn, Jaime looks at Brienne, suddenly unsurprised at his feelings; his brother was always quite adept at reading him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I borrowed a lot from show canon for this chapter.
> 
> While Jaime training with Ilyn Payne in the books generates some amusing dialogue (especially him jokingly wondering if Payne slept with Cersei, too), I really did enjoy him practicing with Bronn in the show.
> 
> And I think the golden hand is fucking absurd, even though Jaime in the books seems more content with it. Goldenhand the Just, indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Brienne’s solid warmth makes his last few months of dutiful oath-keeping torturous. What kind of man does he think he is, really? Using the person he wants as motivation to not break an oath that prevents him from seeking her._
> 
> _This was doomed from the start._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the reviews and kudos! I am floored by how many people are enjoying this ridiculous story. :D
> 
> We're a third of the way through, here, and I think the plot really moves into the second act in this chapter, which means new characters are on the horizon, and we're coming to the end of the pining ahahahaha.

For the next three months, Jaime upholds his Kingsguard oaths more earnestly than he has in the last fifteen years.

He doesn't fuck Cersei, even though she comes to him twice, once his in room in the White Sword Tower. Cersei stares at him with disbelief. _ You would deny the other half of yourself? _ Jaime thinks of Brienne then, and not that he wants to be with _ her _, but what she would say to Cersei in this situation 

"I swore an oath."

"Fuck your _ oaths_," Cersei hisses, "You still sired _ three _ bastards, and you can't take _ that _back."

There's no real fear of Cersei revealing that secret; there's just as much, if not more, hanging in the balance for her. She leaves, and Jaime lets out a breath held for much too long, lungs burning.

If he isn't going to _ tell _ Brienne that he loves her, he's going to demonstrate it by behaving how she would. Cersei guided him for _ so _ many years--even when they were apart, he could hear her, plotting the trajectory that would bind them together. 

Brienne makes _ good _ choices, and Jaime wants to show her that he can, too.

Jaime still wants her, but it's _ romantic _ now. He wants to show her that she can be a knight, and a lady, and that they don’t need to compete or obviate each other if she doesn’t want them to. He abstains, though, despite thinking Brienne would have him. Jaime would give himself to her; absolute, reckless devotion is the only way he knows how to love. Cersei had claimed him from the moment they entered the world by nothing but her presence. He wants to _ choose _ Brienne, though, even though it will give her the power to devastate him.

Brienne is so, _ so _ gentle, though, that Jaime doesn't fear it.

He wants her to see that he can be the man she believes him to be, and _ that _ is more important. Jaime will grant her knighthood and let her go off to do the good he knows she will. Westeros needs knights like her. And _ that's _how Jaime knows he loves her; it's not the possessive, covetous feeling of being with Cersei. 

Even Ser Barristan notices the shift in Jaime's demeanor. The Lord Commander hands him assignments, and Jaime does them with minimal snide commentary.

"You seem different, Kingslayer," Barristan tells him from across the desk in the Lord Commander's office. 

"Is it the golden hand?" Jaime guesses, waving it in the space between them. "It's _ very _ noticeable."

He doesn't even _ laugh_. 

"No, but it _ is _as though losing a hand made you less of an ass." 

"My squire convinced me to take my job seriously."

Barristan _ does _laugh at that, "Lady Brienne is quite serious, isn't she?" 

The exchange might be the most pleasant one he's had with Barristan in fifteen years.

Jaime, whether through Robert or Barristan's influence, ends up guarding Tommen and Myrcella in the afternoons. He should probably see it as punishment, to be made a babysitter. He enjoys them, but the afternoons remind him of his past failure to protect Rhaegar's children.

_ I should have been there when Gregor Clegane showed up. _

Not that he could have beaten the Mountain; all of them would have died, but he would have _ tried. _ Then, King's Landing would have burned, and he really was fucked regardless.

_ My not-quite children_, he thinks as he chases Tommen and Myrcella around the palace gardens or their rooms. He'd traced these same routes, half his life ago, with Rhaenys and Aegon, the same white cloak on his shoulders. They are older than Elia's children ever grew to be, and _ all _ Lannister, with golden hair and green eyes. 

Of course they are, though, Jaime had fucked them into his sister and made bastards of them. The spite of it, the inside joke, holds no humor for him now. 

They remind Jaime of _ all _ his failures.

"Protect them how you are able," Brienne told him when he told her the story; she sat next to him on her terrace on Tarth. "Be an uncle, and a knight; children can never have too many good influences, or eyes watching them."

Joffrey is lost to him--he's cruel like his mother, and the one Cersei is molding. Tommen and Myrcella, though, must have gotten their personalities from _ his _ mother. They are good, and kind.

So, when Tommen lets go of Myrcella's hand and runs to Jaime, shouting, "Ser Uncle!", it doesn't cut him quite the way it used to.

* * *

Jaime tosses the quill onto the desk in frustration; he considered throwing the inkwell at the wall, but that would make a mess, and then he would have to explain _ why _ he threw something like a child having a tantrum. The parchment on the desk is littered with his pathetic attempts at left-handed penmanship. He’d lost half the morning this way, like when he was a child and Tywin would force him sit and read for _ hours _ before letting him go outside. 

Who needed letters and books when there were swords and horses? 

"I'll be a knight," he'd told his father.

"You're my _ heir_," Tywin would repeat, and was never interested in hearing that Cersei was born first, and that Tyrion could already read better than Jaime. He could _ never _ be a lord.

Jaime has more discipline, now, and forces himself to sign his name over and over. He's so immersed in his frustration that he misses Brienne's knock, turning when he hears his name.

She opened his door on her own, and that washes away his irritation.

"You're writing?" Brienne surveys the papers littered on the desk.

"That's a generous definition of this mess."

"You'll get there." She's said that about everything obstacle, and Jaime always believes her. 

"This is worse than the sword." _ Many _ things are worse than the sword, actually--writing not even chief among them--large cuts of meat, his armor, and saddling a horse are _ all _ significant challenges.

"Can I help?"

"It's not usually needed," he answers, "but it's just another indignity."

The golden hand is on the desk next to him, and Brienne reaches out runs her fingers over it. Jaime wishes she'd touch his left hand like that. He misses the myriad of tiny interactions from their time on Tarth. He'd been too miserable to appreciate them properly. And now, it would be odd to reach for her.

"It will take a lot more than poor penmanship to make me think less of you," Brienne pulls her hand away.

"If I haven’t managed it yet, I hate to think what would."

Their relationship is completely inverted; Jaime isn't convinced he's taught her _ anything _, but she has graced every aspect of his life with improvement. There's only one thing he has left to give her. It means he might lose her, which will hurt, but Jaime won’t deny her what she’s earned.

"I think you've earned _ ser _ before your name."

Brienne blinks at him for a few seconds until she catches his meaning. 

"_What_?!"

"Don't you think you're ready? I meant to do it on Tarth, but--"

"I--"

"Do you want someone else to do it? Being made a knight by the Kingslayer _might_ take some of the polish off." _That_ would hurt his feelings, but he couldn't blame her if it was true. "Then again," Jaime continues, "maybe starting low is good; being knighted by Arthur Dayne on the battlefield wasn't a boon for me, in the end. It was just a height to fall from."

"Jaime--"

"If you'd prefer, Robert could do it if you can get him to stop drinking and whoring long enough to sit his fat ass on the throne. Or, I know, Barristan is fond of you. "

He's fucking _ babbling _ and can't seem to stop. She's looking down at him now with a tiny smile. More words almost bubble forth until she reaches out and touches his cheek, calloused fingers catching on the beard he never actively decided to keep, but is still there for some reason.

"You're rambling," Brienne says, and is he imagining her fondness? He hopes he isn't.

"I am."

"_Why _ would anyone else do it?"

"I...don't know."

"I'd be honored for you to do it, _ ser_." The title hasn't been on her lips in _ months _, not since Tarth, but he loves her for the way she says it in this moment. 

Jaime's sad when her hand drifts away, so he takes it in his own. "I _ want _ to do it," he answers, "but, of all the people to bestow the honor onto _ you _, I am the least worthy."

"I disagree."

"It’s as you say, then, my lady.”

“Do you really mean...right now?” Brienne’s voice is laced with nervousness.

“I do,” Jaime answers, “You’re ready; it requires no audience, and the timing is completely under my discretion. There’s nothing more I can teach you, and you’re the noblest person I’ve met since Arthur Dayne.”

Jaime stands from the chair, giving her hand a squeeze before letting go. His sword is leaning against the wall. When he unsheathes it, it feels as natural in his left hand as it’s ever going to; Jaime has accepted that for what it is.

“Do you know the words?” 

“I...think,” Jaime answers, “I’ve never actually done it, or even watched it done, other than my own. I should have been more prepared.”

Brienne smiles, more earnestly than before, “I know them. I memorized them when I was a girl, pointlessly, or so I thought. They would never be said to me, and I would never say them to another.”

“Not so pointless after all.”

“No.”

“You’re supposed to kneel; I’m confident of that.” 

She’s biting her lip, and watching him. He feels jittery, suddenly, even though they’re alone with no one to judge him. Jaime wants to kiss her almost as much as he wants to touch his sword upon her shoulders and recite vows. 

"Kneel, Brienne of Tarth.”

She does; it’s peculiar, to be looking down at her, so used as he is to having to look up. Jaime’s grip feels wobbly as he lays his sword flat on Brienne’s right shoulder, and it has nothing to do with the fact that it’s his left hand.

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”

Jaime remembers it, shockingly, switching his sword to Brienne’s left shoulder, and back to her right after each sentence. Brienne is looking up at him, blue eyes glimmering like she’s about to cry. It almost pulls Jaime away from the task at hand.

“Arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Brienne does, and all Jaime can think is _ ah, that’s better _ ; Brienne, and her honor, _ should _be something he looks up to see. The tears in her eyes spill over, but she remains silent as they run down her cheeks. 

“It’s not _ sad_,” Jaime says, panicking. Brienne crying was unimaginable; she’d looked at his wreck of a wrist everyday for _ weeks _ and never shed a tear. She even held fast against his own maudlin weeping.

“It’s not,” she agrees, and takes his sword from him, touching his hand in the process once more, and puts it on the desk. The sword covers all his pathetic attempts at writing his name, and that seems like something meaningful he can’t quite piece together.

Then, Brienne embraces him, a litany of _ thank you _s spilling from her. Jaime hasn’t been this close to her since the night in her room on Tarth. She rests her chin on his shoulder, and Jaime flounders before letting his left arm settle on her waist. He nearly mirrors the gesture with his right, but self-consciousness halts him.

Brienne’s solid warmth makes his last few months of dutiful oath-keeping torturous. What kind of man does he think he is, really? Using the person he wants as motivation to _ not _ break an oath that prevents him from seeking her.

This was doomed from the start. 

Brienne takes two steps back, removing her arms from around him, like she’s forgotten herself in her outburst. Her giddy smile is one he remembers, though; the feeling of the Sword of the Morning saying those vows to him. Jaime can recall the sheer _ joy _of it.

“Don’t,” he blurts, arm still at her waist, “stay please, ser.” 

Brienne’s eyes widen, but she stops her egress. There’s space between them now, more than Jaime wants; he wants _ none _.

“_Ser_,” she says, with wonder, "you mean _ me_.”

Jaime smiles back, “I do.”

“Thank you,” Brienne repeats.

_ This _is the best thing he's done since entering the Kingsguard. He longs to be closer, to absorb her elation until it becomes a part of him. He had given her something, but she had given him more. She’s not touching him; they’re connected by just his hand, too intimate on her waist to be a gesture between comrades.

“It’s I who should be grateful,” Jaime answers, “you’ve returned a feeling I thought was dead in me. I could only think of knighthood as chains; I forgot that I _ wanted _ this, once, as much as you did.” 

“I didn’t return the feeling to you, I just helped you find it.”

“I’ve been trying to be the man you think me to be," Jaime confesses because he feels Brienne should know, especially now that they are no longer bound together. 

Brienne moves like she’s going to reach for his hand, but only the right side is free, and Jaime panics, thinks of the golden hand on the desk. She circles her fingers around his wrist instead. It’s a hideous, scarred mess, and she touches it anyway; that she’d cared for the wound is one thing, but the need for that is long past. 

“You've always been the man I know you are."

And, for the first time, Jaime is able to do more than just believe that Brienne believes.

* * *

No one mentions moving out of the squire’s quarters; there’s no new squire who needs them, and Jaime’s feelings on taking another are plain on his face when Brienne asks him.

“I’ve only one hand left, ser; I think I should stop while I’m ahead.” The joke makes her wince, but that’s just Jaime’s way.

"Thank you," Brienne tells him again, but he just shakes his head.

"Don’t thank me, wench--the honor and effort of it are yours."

Brienne floats through the next few days, probably the happiest she's been in memory. Jaime calls her _ Ser Brienne _ after nearly every sentence exchanged between them, then laughs as she can't stop herself from smiling. She still helps the gaggle of first-year pages in the morning--there’s about to be a new group, and these boys will move up. Brienne attracts an audience this morning: Ser Beric Dondarrion. He never singled her out during her lessons, and Brienne respects him, even though she doesn’t know him well. She knows he has a squire, a lad named Gendry who became a page two years after her, and who trained as a blacksmith.

“You’re good at that,” Ser Beric tells her when the pages scatter to put away their things.

“You mean teaching, ser?” 

“Would you be interested in doing it more formally?”

“I never thought of that as an option,” she answers honestly. “Would I be allowed?”

The idea that _ anyone _ would take her seriously enough to learn from her is novel; the pages _ do _ listen to her, though. 

“You’re more than skilled enough, and you’re practically doing the job already,” Ser Beric answers, “Iit might be fun to see how the old brass react to you sticking around.”

“The pages think me an oddity, but they don’t talk to me like I shouldn’t be here. They don’t...make the same comments as my cohort, either.”

“You’ve proven your place, and you’ve been tested more than others. Unfairly so.”

“If I taught, I could stay in King’s Landing?” A small part of her mind keeps repeating _ you’ll have to leave, unless you find a reason to stay. _Two years ago, if someone told her she'd be looking for a reason to stay, she would have laughed.

“You’d prefer to remain here?”

“For a while, yes,” Brienne answers, “Tarth doesn’t need more knights, and I should probably return home, eventually, but not yet.”

“No Kingsguard oaths for you, then?” he jokes.

“No, ser, I don’t think that would be the right fit for me.”

Ser Beric laughs, “Too many restrictions, right? Not that there’s even a vacancy.”

She thinks of Jaime, of conflicting oaths twisted around, trapping and stifling him. He was young, _ too _young, when he swore them. 

“Thank you for the offer; I’ll consider it.”

Brienne’s about to walk away when he calls out, “We’ve received an application for a second girl.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“She’s one of Eddard Stark’s daughters, from Winterfell. Her name is Arya.”

“I’ll stay, then,” Brienne doesn’t need time to think anymore, “if it can be arranged.”

She vows to look after the girl, this Arya Stark of Winterfell. 

There are other reasons to stay, some more fanciful than others. The first is that she genuinely has no plans; she can either wander the countryside as a hedge knight, or return to Tarth. Her father would be happy, but he would also ask if that was what she wanted for herself. A hedge knight could help people, but Brienne imagines aimlessly riding the Kingsroad, probably hungry, and that holds no appeal. She’d pledge her service to a worthy lord or lady, if one presented themselves.

The pages like her, and she finds instructing them surprisingly rewarding. They’re so different from four years ago, and they remind Brienne that viewpoints change, albeit slowly. It's worth staying if she can give the _ second _female page a better experience than she had, not that Brienne regrets coming to King's Landing. 

Brienne tries to convince herself Jaime plays _ no _ role in her decision, but the sentiment rings hollow. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms she may be, but when she tells him of her decision, he smiles so brightly that her breath catches in her throat.

* * *

Arya Stark is set to arrive on Brienne’s third official day, with her father and older sister in tow. Ser Barristan asks Brienne to greet them.

“Northerners are wary,” Ser Barristan told her the day prior, “Starks in particular. Lord Eddard is old friends with King Robert, and Jon Arryn is like a father to them both. Nevertheless, leaving his youngest daughter in _ this _ den of vipers is not an easy decision.”

“I understand how they both feel.”

Brienne spends the evening speculating on Arya _ and _ Ned Stark’s dispositions. Instead of speculating alone in her new room, _ somehow _ she ends up in a tavern outside the Red Keep with Jaime, Tyrion, and Bronn.

“Northerners are backwards,” Jaime says, unhelpfully. Brienne watches him navigate his plate, instinctively stabbing the cut of meat with her fork when he struggles with a two-handed task. They could be back on Tarth, for all the gesture reminds her of it.

Tyrion notices, and the rest of them notice that he does.

“You’d be backwards too if you lived somewhere so cold your balls froze off in the _ summer_,” says Bronn, “Fuck anywhere north of the Twins.”

“The both of you and your southern sensibilities,” Tyrion interjects, “You don’t want to see the Wall? I’d like to piss off the edge of the world.”

Both Bronn and Jaime look at him and say, in unison, “_No _.”

It’s enough to make Brienne laugh into her mug, which immediately makes her feel awkward when they all look at her.

“I thought _ Ser _Brienne was always sullen,” Bronn is laughing, too.

“No,” Jaime answers, “she laughs; her sense of humor is just more elevated than a cunt like you can manage.”

Bronn howls this time. Brienne has no idea if Jaime is praising her or teasing her, or even if the two need separated. “Do any of you know anything _ useful _ about Ned Stark, Warden of the North?”

“So honorable he’d break before even _ attempting _ to see another perspective.” Jaime sounds angry, but he covers it quickly, typical abrasive cockiness in his tone.

Brienne, though, only remembers his head bowed against her in the bath, asking her, the universe, why _ he _ was the one with shit for honor. Bronn won’t notice aught is amiss; Jaime is skilled wielding his personality as a weapon _ and _ a shield. He will assume Jaime thinks himself _ better _ than some northern lord, and leave it at that.

“I hear he’s a good man,” Tyrion tries to be helpful, “but distrustful. Northerners keep to themselves, and don’t come south without good cause.”

“Lord Stark’s daughter must be headstrong, if he’s willing to consider letting her enroll and stay here,” Brienne thinks aloud.

Taking a swig from his mug, Bronn interjects, “What about that island up there where they fuck bears? The...Mormonts, maybe?”

“_What_?” Brienne blurts, “That _ can’t _be true.”

“It’s true! Lady Mormont has taken no husband, and all her daughters are warriors because she fucks bears.”

“Bronn,” Jaime says, “you’ve shocked my lady knight.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The boon, though,” Tyrion continues, “is that Brienne is not your typical lady; she has been mocked, before, by romantic overtures that were jests. The challenge will be convincing her you are serious.”_
> 
> _He tries, and fails, to put Tyrion’s words into a plan of action._
> 
> _“So,” Tyrion finishes, “I council honesty; just go fucking tell her.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get Arya this chapter! And Ned! And some development!
> 
> Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews, and hits, and kudos. I love seeing every single one!

Ser Barristan asks Brienne to greet the party coming from Winterfell at the gates to King’s Landing. She can’t object to the logic behind the decision--_someone _from the training academy should greet the Starks, Brienne just wishes it didn’t have to be her.

“I can accompany you, ser, if you’re uncomfortable,” Jaime offers when they’re sparring.

Brienne raises her eyebrows, “Ah, yes, _ that _ will comfort the wary northern lord, seeing Lannister colors when he enters the capital.”

“I could wear white.”

“And _ that _will mask your identity?” 

“Or, gold armor _ and _ the white cloak,” he continues, “Although, he will surely recognize me then, dressed as I was when he walked into the throne room and found me sitting atop the iron throne, Aerys's still-warm corpse at my feet.”

Sometimes, Brienne can’t discern if Jaime is genuinely in a good humor, or deflecting. She tries to read his tells and can’t. He _ looks _ jovial, smiling and chuckling, but that’s easy to fake.

“That was a long time ago,” Brienne tries.

Jaime scoffs, “The North remembers, or whatever that bullshit is.”

He has such presence that Brienne can't imagine what Jaime would need to do to mask it. Perhaps shaving his head would do it?

“I will go alone; no matter the clothes, you stand out,” she gestures to his golden hair.

This time, Brienne knows the soft smile he graces her with _ is _ real, “What if I wore the blue of Tarth, then? Would that be enough to mask my indiscretions?”

Brienne goes alone because it's the only real option. As she waits, she imagines ridiculous scenarios of putting her sapphire cloak on Jaime's shoulders. A wedding would be the most obvious, but it would be _ him _ putting a cloak on _ her _ shoulders, then. She'd happily welcome him into her house, though, if such a thing were possible.

When Ned Stark and his daughters enter the gate, the first trait Brienne notices is how overdressed they look--all dark leather and furs. It's nearly autumn, but the climate in King's Landing is so mild Brienne barely notices the change. She feels too-warm in the afternoon sun, even without her armor; a simple linen tunic would be less stifling, jumping in the sea would be better.

"Welcome to King's Landing, my lord," Brienne bows, stiffly, and hopes northerners are lenient on their manners.

Lord Stark dismounts, helping the older of the two girls off her horse. The other girl, who is studying Brienne with large, gray eyes, _ has _ to be Arya. She and her father _ look _ like northerners, but the older girl, whose name Brienne can't recall (had she even been told it?) has flowing auburn hair and blue eyes. 

_ Lord Stark is married to...a Tully? _ Brienne tries to remember, but she has never had a mind for politics or genealogy.

"Thank you," Lord Stark answers when the girls are behind him, "these are my daughters: Arya, who I assume you've been told of, and Sansa, who _ desperately _ wanted to see the capital."

Sansa bows with an elegance that Brienne always wished to possess, and Arya does nothing. Lord Stark shrugs, a small smile on his face; his daughters seem to have him wrapped around their fingers.

"I'm Brienne of Tarth, my lord." She leaves the _ ser _off her name, "Ser Barristan asked me to greet you."

"You're her!" Arya calls out, "the _ knight_. Why didn't you introduce yourself as such?"

"I…" Brienne starts, "it's still very new, I suppose."

Arya makes to respond, but is cut off by another group of people approaching the city gates. She recognizes Petyr Baelish immediately despite the fact they've never spoken. He’s accompanied by two members of the city watch.

“Lord Stark,” Baelish calls out, “I heard you were arriving, and thought to greet you and offer you my services during your stay.”

_ Services? _

“Thank you, Lord Baelish,” Lord Stark replies, “but we’ve already been suitably greeted.”

Baelish dismounts his horse and approaches them, “Ah, yes, by Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

He doesn’t say _ ser_, and Brienne doesn’t correct him. There’s something about his voice that bothers her--he sounds _ oily _, like everything his words touch is going to be left with some unpleasant film on it.

“We’ve never met, Lord Baelish,” she replies instead. “Ser Barristan sent me to greet them.”

“I’m sure he did,” Baelish replies, walking toward Arya and Sansa, “but what does he know about how to entertain two young girls in the city?”

_What does Lord Baelish_ _know about entertaining to young girls in the city?_

“We’ve plenty to occupy our time,” Lord Stark’s tone is chilly, “I thank you for your hospitality.” Brienne can’t recall a man ever sounding _ less _ appreciative of a gesture.

Baelish approaches Sansa now, “Lady Sansa, you are just as beautiful as your mother.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa curtsies again, but steps away when Baelish reaches out to touch her hair. 

“Your mother and I grew up together at Riverrun. I’d be honored to escort you around the capital.”

Sansa glances at Lord Stark, a silent plea. Brienne, homely as she is, knows what it’s like to be surrounded by men making her uncomfortable. The girl can’t be older Brienne was when she first came to King’s Landing. It would be worse for Sansa because of her beauty.

“They’ll be no need for that,” Lord Stark steps in before Brienne can, wrapping an arm around Sansa’s shoulder and pulling her out of Baelish’s reach. “We’re very tired, my lord, so if you’ll excuse us.”

“Of course, my lord,” he replies, but his eyes follow Sansa as she gets back on her horse.

The rest of Lord Stark's retinue re-mounts their horses and winds through the city to the Red Keep. Arya and Sansa begin bickering about anything they can think of behind them.

"I'm very apprehensive to leave Arya _ here _," he says when the sisters' bickering grows loud enough to drown out his voice, "King's Landing is a den of vipers. King Robert is my oldest friend, but this place is overrun with Lannister political scheming and treachery."

Brienne rushes to defend Jaime, trying not to let his impression of Ned Stark spill over onto her evaluation of the man. _ Jaime has a bias_, she keeps telling herself, _ I understand it, but it's still present_. 

"I'll watch her, my lord," Brienne offers her services without thinking. There is no reason for Lord Stark to trust her, and he is wise to be wary of King's Landing, with the likes of Petyr Baelish and Tywin Lannister around.

Lord Stark looks at her as though he's trying to decide what to make of her, "Tell me, Ser Brienne, of your experiences here; perhaps it will ease my nerves."

"Only Ser Barristan took me seriously, and I made few friends amongst my peers, so I was lonely." Telling him of the bullying will serve no purpose, and if Arya has the spirit to stay the course, it won't matter. "A lot has changed in four years--the pages are much more accepting now."

"But you persevered."

"I did, my lord, and Lady Arya will, too."

Lord Stark laughs, "You'd do well to avoid calling her that to her face."

* * *

“Oaths of celibacy are _ ridiculous_.”

It’s a strange line to open with after knocking on his brother’s door. 

Tyrion raises an eyebrow at Jaime, “Have you sworn one?”

“_Yes_, obviously,” Jaime scowls at his brother, missing the joke, “Oh, you mean--_oh_.”

“...There we go.”

“I’m upholding it _ now_.” 

“Why, though?” Tyrion sound genuinely curious, “Not fucking our horrid sister is a decision I can get behind, but _ no one_?”

“Because I swore an oath,” Jaime sounds particularly defensive. If Brienne were in his position, _ she _ would uphold it.

“You know,” Tyrion continues, “if you want to make an argument based on semantics, it’s _ not _ an oath of celibacy.”

“Take no wife, father no children.”

“You might not know this, dear brother, but you can take a lover _ and _avoid those other complications.”

“Are you my fucking septa now?” Tyrion has a point, though; he has fucked an endless number of whores and fathered many, many less bastards than Jaime himself. No, Cersei _ wanted _ those children, and wanted them to be _ his_.

Tyrion laughs, clearly delighted, “Do you need me to be?”

“_No_. I’m not a maiden, or some green boy.”

This conversation, while Jaime’s own fault, is strangely embarrassing. He sits in his usual chair and pours wine with his left hand. The first sip surprises him--it tastes _ good _, like a Dornish vintage: if Tyrion is going to mortify him, it will taste good while he does it.

“Aren’t you a maiden, though? Swooning over your knight, wanting her favor. Imagining her coming into your chambers and making sweet love to you.”

Well, now his ears are red, and Tyrion has started his imagination down a wandering path. “You told me I _ love _her. It’s...not the same as Cersei.”

“You’re a romantic.”

“I’m _ not_\--”

“You _ are_,” Tyrion interrupts, pouring wine for himself, “Cersei told you the two of you were _ made _ to be together, to live and die as one, you dedicated your life to that, for all the unhappiness that it brought you. Find me a more idiotically romantic gesture.”

“I _ chose _ to be with Cersei--”

“No, you didn’t. _ She _chose it, and you’re loyal, so you obeyed.”

Tyrion’s assessment of him cuts deep and makes him feel like a fool. “Brienne is _ different _.”

“She _ is_,” Tyrion agrees, “if you want to court Lady Brienne, then do it. Give her your devotion, as is your wont. It will be heartening to see you throw yourself at someone worthy.”

“It’s _ Ser _ Brienne.”

Tyrion laughs, “Of _ course _ it is. I want to commission a bard to write a song about the two of you---a knight and his lady knight. Not your typical courtly romance.”

More wine might be needed to get through this. “Tyrion, you’ve more experience with this--_how _ do I even…?’

“Well, as you charmingly told Bronn, _ Ser _ Brienne is not a Flea Bottom whore, which means I don’t know.”

Jaime drinks again; there really was no aid for him, was there?

“The boon, though,” Tyrion continues, “is that Brienne is not your typical lady; she has been mocked, before, by romantic overtures that were jests. The challenge will be convincing her you are serious.”

He tries, and fails, to put Tyrion’s words into a plan of action.

“So,” Tyrion finishes, “I council honesty; just go fucking tell her.”

* * *

Arya Stark is excited about everything, although she tries her best to hide it under a mask of indifference. 

"Lady Arya," Brienne calls out to her, remembering immediately what her father has said about _ lady. _ Arya is running her hands over the wall of practice swords in the armory.

"I'm not a _ lady_," Arya calls back; Brienne can see her wrinkle her nose from across the room. "Sansa is lady--she wears dresses and curtsies and wants to marry a boring prince."

Brienne laughs, "Come on, there are more things to show you."

Lord Stark asks Brienne a bevy of questions, and Brienne does her best to answer them truthfully. 

"Where will Arya be housed?"

"I suggested they give her my old room; it's small, but she will be alone, which is best, given…"

"Her gender," Lord Stark finishes.

"Lady Arya is willful," Brienne looks over to where the girl is inspecting some training dummies. "I think she will be fine here."

"She is definitely that, and a tomboy through and through," he smiles fondly at Arya, and Brienne is reminded of her own father. "Am I a fool to consider leaving her here?"

"No, my lord," Brienne answers, "I think my father felt the same way, but he still let me pursue it. Lady Arya might fare better than I did."

"Why is that so?"

"I'm..." Brienne is unsure how to explain it. She settles on, "I think she will integrate better with her peers."

"Ser Brienne means, my lord, that your daughter seems more sociable than her dour self."

That _ voice. _ Lord Stark's entire expression shifts, and Brienne turns her head to find Jaime striding into the armory. She'd managed to stop him from coming with her to greet the Starks, but here he is, not even a day later. He's wearing all Kingsguard white today, except for the golden hand.

Lord Stark tilts his head in the briefest of acknowledgements, "Kingslayer."

"Lord Stark."

Brienne sort of wants to run, but she looks at Arya instead. Even the girl has stopped her inspection of the weapons to watch.

Jaime stands there, as if to say _ Look, I'm still here. _

"I'm sorry about your swordhand."

Surprise flickers across Jaime's face, halting whatever witty retort he surely had lined up. "I didn't know news of my crippling made it to the barren North."

"Word of something like that travels, but I haven't heard the how of it."

Jaime makes eye contact with Brienne for a second too long. "I was keeping an oath to protect someone in my charge; I was successful, and have come to terms with the loss."

Brienne feels a distinct burning behind her eyes and looks at the ground. _ Is that really how he feels? _

"Protecting those we care about can come at great cost," Lord Stark answers, "Still though, it must require quite an adjustment."

Brienne looks between them again, wondering if Jaime and Lord Stark have come to some understanding. 

Jaime grins, "It's not so bad, when you have a dutiful squire to cut your food and wash your hair."

Brienne's mortification is drowned by Arya's hysterical laughter.

* * *

It can't get worse; or, that's what Jaime keeps telling himself. He'd never considered himself a coward, whether there was a sword in his hand or not, but this is terrifying_ . _Tyrion suggested honesty, but there's degrees to that, isn't there? What would Brienne respond to the best?

He could tell Brienne that he thought he knew desire before, but wanting Cersei was like breath, part of him and involuntary. Brienne isn't like that at all--she rips through him like fire or flood, creating and reshaping him. 

Jaime could tell her that he wants to court her, but Brienne will think he's mocking her. He's not _ really _ available to do it, either. He's less entangled than six months ago, but there's still his damned oaths. Brienne might reject him on those grounds alone.

Or, he could just tell her the full truth--that he's in love with her, and it makes him feel like girl of ten summers, lovesick over a knight in a story.

Brienne's new room is further away, but it means she's staying in King's Landing, so the trade is a fair one. The walk gives him just enough time to panic, Knocking is easy enough, he raps on the door with the golden hand--she’ll know its him by the sound. There's a long enough pause that Jaime wonders, half hopes, that she isn't in. Then, he tried, and it can't be helped if it didn't work out. The gods are fickle and cruel, right?

Brienne answers though, smiles when she sees him; Jaime's stomach does an irritating flip.

"Ser Brienne," Jaime calls her that, now, at least once a day, just to see her face light up. Brienne never adds _ser_ back to his name, so she must understand why he's doing it.

"Come in," she answers, stepping aside. Jaime follows; he's not going to have this conversation in the hallway.

When the door is closed, Jaime surveys the room. It's larger than her old one, and through her open window he can hear the sounds of waves crashing against rocks. Brienne must like that. Her belongings are strewn around--trunk at the foot of her bed, blue cloak draped over the desk chair and pooling on the floor.

"This room is nicer than the squire's quarters."

Brienne nods, "And _ much _ nicer than the page dormitories." She pauses. "It's... further from you, though."

Does she sound _ sad _?

"Wench, do you _ miss _ me?" Teasing her is a dynamic he knows and has confidence in. It's everything _ beyond _ that is going to wreck him.

"Y--yes," Brienne answers, "you're fine company."

"...Fine company?"

Brienne looks over his shoulder instead of at him. Jaime wished, before, for Brienne to be the one to approach him; it would save him the turmoil of _ how _ . Nevermind Cersei's continual assertion that he was letting Brienne emasculate him--he'd traded clothes and places with her as children until Tywin stopped him. He'd also let Cersei lead him around for _ years _. Who cares if Brienne is his protector? Who cares if she makes him want to swoon like a fucking maiden? Let Tyrion commission that fucking song.

Brienne will _ never _ initiate what Jaime wants. She’s too wary and too shy.

"Enough of this farce," he starts. Brienne's eyes make their way back to him. _ So fucking blue_; he could swim in them, _ drown _ in them. "I tire of dancing around each other like this."

"Jaime, what--"

He's Jaime Lannister--a hundred women he _ doesn't _ want will fall at his feet if he chooses, but the one he wants will surely think he's mocking her.

"I love you."

Brienne goes completely still, and Jaime holds his breath; there was _ probably _ a better way to execute that.

"_What?! _"

It's such a usual response from her that Jaime starts laughing. Brienne looks irritated.

"You heard me."

"...I don't know _ what _I heard."

Jaime is happy to say it again, wonders if maybe physical contact will aid his quest. Brienne's scowl is more impressive up close, but so are her eyes. He touches her cheek with his left hand, a gesture she's done on more than one occasion. How lamentable that one hand is all he has. Brienne is a mess of blushing and freckles under his touch.

"You heard me awkwardly confessing my feelings.” It comes out with much less panic. "I'm not mocking you."

"You _ can't. _"

"Why?"

"Men like you don't love women like me."

_ Fuck everyone who made her feel this way. _

"Do you mean a Lannister? The Kingslayer? A cripple with shit for honor?" Jaime gets louder with each word.

_ "No_," Brienne answers, shaking her head and dislodging his hand. " _ Handsome _, you ass. We make a laughable combination already."

Jaime's voice lowers, "Do you know how I see you?"

"N-no, what do you--?"

If Jaime praises her, it will be like a dam opening; he won't stop until Brienne believes him or is so mortified she wants the floor to swallow her up. 

"You're brave, and noble, and _ kind. _"

"That's not the same as being beautiful."

"Fuck beauty!" Jaime exclaims. "My sister is beautiful, and she is filled with cruelty. I've been vain and arrogant; I know better now." He holds up his fucking ridiculous golden hand. "I would have died from this, without you, and I don't mean from my flesh rotting."

"Of course I would care for you, but _ love_?" Brienne sounds hesitant, but _ hopeful _ , and, _ gods _, let him be able to prove it.

"_Yes_. I want nothing but you to think well of me. My brother says I stare at you like a lovesick maiden. If you need proof beyond extolling your virtues, fine."

Now Brienne looks frightened, like he's going to attack her. Jaime wants to, after a fashion, and it would prove his attraction to her, but it might explode on him, too.

"I know nothing about wooing a woman, and even _ less _ about wooing _ you _. You have your knighthood, earned by your own hands. What else do you long for?"

Brienne won't want favors or gifts, so his family wealth won't matter. He can't protect her in combat anymore, and she wouldn't have needed him for that when he _ had _ two hands. 

“It’s the foolish wish of a girl who danced with Renly Baratheon," Brienne whispers, as though the words come from a place deep in her heart. "I...want to be loved, by someone who accepts me as I am.”

Then, Jaime is smiling so wide it almost hurts, elated for a wish he can grant. "Why is that foolish?"

"Because men love dainty women, who curtsy and sew."

Jaime shakes his head, "You’re _ glorious _ with a sword in your hands. Even when I was bleeding out on the beach, I thought how _ right _you looked."

“And you...want _ that_? Even though no one you seek would deny you, you'd choose..."

"_You_, Ser Brienne," he takes her hand. "And I can grant your wish, if you'll have someone as wretched as me."

"You're not wretched."

Jaime will pour every ounce of fidelity Cersei didn't deserve into Brienne; the sun will rise and set for her, if she'll let him. “I’m a fool, wench, single-minded devotion is my only redeeming quality." 

Brienne smiles at him, and it's the shy smile of a maiden; he didn't even know she _ had _ an expression like that.

"I... suppose," Brienne starts, and Jaime feels like all his name days have come at once, "I could let you show me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose that was a mean spot to end on...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He moves closer, and Brienne lets him because he's invaded every other aspect of her life, why should her personal space be the place to make her last stand?_
> 
> _"You still talk too much."_
> 
> _"Put me to better use, then." Jaime laughs, a bright, carefree sound Brienne wants to wrap herself in. "Be gentle, though, good ser; I've little experience."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAND WE'RE BACK! :D
> 
> You get tiny, shy book!Podrick! And an end to all that damn pining! And plot!

Brienne says _ show me_, but there's a long span of time where neither of them move. Jaime is a statue, except for the measured inhale and exhale of breathing. He's _ watching _ her, though, like it's the first time he's given himself permission to. He must be blind, or looking at some point beyond her; an expression like that can't be for her. 

Did he look at Cersei like that?

Not that she has an ounce of envy of Jaime's sister; she would never long to be so cruel, regardless of the closeness, the devotion, it might afford her. 

Jaime looks fond, a softness in his green eyes that makes her heart race if it really is for _ her. _ There's an undercurrent of something darker that sweeps the breath from her lungs and makes her flush. Desire? Jaime looks like someone her septa would have warned her about; a man designed to _ tempt_, to ruin. Someone who would take her virtue and leave her bereft.

_ Well, consider me tempted. _

Brienne is a knight, and only she has the power to ruin herself, and desire won't be the thing that does it. She knows every one of Jaime's stupid, well-defined features. His golden hair that she wants to bury her fingers in, the smile he flashes when he's in a good mood, the way his ridiculous Lannister armor makes him look so _ confident_, like half a god. 

Brienne remembers him unclothed, too, and some well-ingrained sense of shame mixes with her desire. Jaime had been in no position for anything then, but the image burned within her.

"You've never looked at me like that," Jaime says, low. Brienne wants to chase the warm rush his voice gives her. "Being the object of that expression is _ good_, especially when your eyes--"

"I'm more than my eyes," Brienne answers; she doesn't know why she's sabotaging herself. Jaime's want makes her feel ill-equipped, like she's ten years old, and her terrible embroidery is being criticized. She'll never be right for this; she's too _ tall_, too broad, too _ everything _for the softness in Jaime's expression.

"It's just a piece of a whole," Jaime replies, taking her hand. It's such a miniscule amount of contact, but it has _ intent_. "I know you're taller and stronger than me, and that you have the hands of a knight. I know that you blush behind your ears, and that I vividly remember what you looked like in the bath."

He's encroaching on her space, and Brienne can feel the heat of him.

"As l-long as you _ see_," Brienne stammers. Her heart is a fragile thing, for all she armors it. Letting go of that is terrifying, even for Jaime, who she trusts.

"Cersei _ never _ saw me, only a reflection of what she wanted. I won't inflict that on another."

Then, Jaime presses his lips against hers, even though he has to push himself up to reach her. He doesn't seem to mind, though, just loops his left arm around her neck to keep them pressed together. The first kiss is practically courtly--Jaime is there, and then he's drawn back to look at her. Brienne's arms hang idly at her sides until she wraps them around him in return. 

"The first, I assume?" 

"How clever," Brienne answers, "I can't _ begin _ to guess how you deduced that. Was it all the suitors lining up, or the bloody _ bet_\--"

"And yet," Jaime sounds _ much _ too satisfied with himself, "I didn't even need to best you in combat." 

He moves closer, and Brienne lets him because he's invaded every other aspect of her life, why should her personal space be the place to make her last stand?

"You _ still _talk too much."

"Put me to better use, then." Jaime laughs, a bright, carefree sound Brienne wants to wrap herself in. "Be gentle, though, good ser; I've little experience."

"Well, I've less, so how will we manage?"

Jaime answers her, not with words, but by kissing her again. It's not courtly this time; but it's not wanton, either. It's _ slow_, and she lets herself get towed along by whatever current Jaime establishes. She sighs against his mouth and tightens her arms around him. Now that she's the anchor, Jaime goes questing with his left hand, sliding his fingers into her hair, under the neckline of her shirt. He moves his mouth away, too, and Brienne makes a noise of protest until Jaime chuckles and kisses the patch of skin by her ear. The tickle of his beard against her cheek makes Brienne squirm.

"Your blushing really is best _ here_," he whispers. 

Brienne tries to summon a witty retort. What does one say, in this situation? Jaime always has the words he needs, able to use them to whatever ends he desired. Her imagination doesn't extend to the sweet nothings traded, in whispers, between lovers. She can’t be coy, or flirtatious.

“Let's sit," she blurts, and _ everything _feels like it's on fire now, not just her ears.

The last time she sat on a bed with Jaime was back on Tarth; she’d re-bandaged his wrist, probably on the last night before they returned to King’s Landing. They’re side-by-side again, the golden hand between them. Brienne traces her fingers over it. 

“How long have you been thinking...?” The question scares her, so she whispers it; kissing Jaime until her mind went blank might be easier.

“A year,” he confesses, “maybe more. I used to wonder about what you would do if I knocked on your door. Even before Cersei and I--”

_ That long? _

Brienne kisses him this time, much less artfully, but it shuts him up. She feels terribly clumsy, but Jaime grabs her knee so tightly it almost hurts. 

“Your left hand really _ is _ strong now,” Brienne says when she pulls away. 

Jaime blinks at her, “Is that an _ innuendo_, ser?”

“_No_!”

“I’m _ quite _ interested in exploring the deviant thoughts of Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

That smile might end her; _ ser _ is laced with suggestion when Jaime says it. Brienne can imagine him calling her that--

“Did your father know we shared a bed all those weeks?” Jaime is still grinning like a cat that caught a bird. The non sequitur is nothing more than a tease to plant a thought in her mind and let it grow there.

Brienne nods, “He never directly said so, but he had to realize."

“I considered reaching for you, a few times, when the pain--”

_ I would have held you_, she thinks. “I wouldn’t have minded,” she says.

“Really?” Jaime can’t keep the surprise from his tone. This was another wound Cersei inflicted--the scars are invisible, unlike his maimed wrist, but with no less of an impact; she made him believe himself unworthy of affection. 

“Is that surprising?” It’s not an appropriate question, not when Brienne knows the answer.

He’s resting his head against her when he answers, “I know you wouldn’t shoo me away like a scolded child caught somewhere they ought not to be.”

_ Is _ that _ how Cersei made him feel? _

“Unlearning things takes time.” Brienne is trying to unlearn the assumption that everyone is mocking her, that she’s met people she can be unguarded with. "You're...welcome to stay, now, if it suits you.”

There’s a _ woosh_, and Brienne’s head hits the mattress, barely a handspan from the stone wall of her room. _ That _ would have hurt. Jaime is above her, kissing her like she’s some long-sought after antidote. Brienne finally allows herself the impulse to drag her fingers through his hair, a gesture she’s wanted to repeat for _ months_. Jaime can’t seem to settle on a trajectory for his movements--he holds himself up with his right elbow, while his left hand skitters around her--through the strands of her hair, a trail of tingling down her neck. When he seeks to deepen the exchange, Brienne lets him with no hesitation. _ This _ was a kiss a septa would warn about, all lustful abandon and inviting darkness. As desire pools in her, Brienne’s thinks _ show me _ like a refrain.

Jaime seems content, after, to kiss her neck, down to her collarbone. She makes a noise, and is mortified, until Jaime laughs, jubilant, like when he disarms her during a sword fight.

“_This _ kind of sparring will be fun; I’ll need new tricks, though.”

“_Please _don’t ask your brother,” Brienne answers, “...or Bronn.”

"Either would certainly know more ways to please a lady than I."

In truth, _ anything _Jaime did would please her. Brienne can feel his strain at holding himself up on one elbow, but he continues, golden hair tickling her neck. 

“Jaime,” she whispers, and he moves to look down at her, illuminated by the firelight in her lamp, and Brienne’s heart nearly stops. He’s too beautiful, all soft edges and a golden halo. “You can’t be comfortable like that.”

“Fuck _ comfort_,” he answers gruffly, “even one-handed, I can--”

“I’ve no doubt the feats you can accomplish,” Brienne glances to her left, where the golden hand is inches from her face, atop her blanket, “but you don’t need _ this _to do them; unless you plan to bludgeon me with it.”

Jaime scowls for a second, as if to say he’d never, but then he laughs. He sits up at the edge of the bed and works at the laces of his boots one-handed. He's stalling about the hand, but Brienne is impressed at his speed.

"You're better at that."

"I've no squire to dress me any longer, so I make do," Jaime sounds incredibly melodramatic.

That taunt would have barely registered an hour ago, but in the newness of kissing Jaime, Brienne blushes and tries not to imagine dressing _ or _ undressing. "I _ never _ helped with that."

"We can rectify that."

Well, there goes any hope Brienne has of _ not _ thinking about removing clothing. She can imagine Jaime feigning ineptitude to fluster her as she divested him of his clothing, piece by piece. He would grin at her, like he is now, until she feels like she's melting, but the reward would be _ him _and--

"All my septa's lessons warned of you, I think."

"Do you remember her advice fondly?" Jaime asks. "How specific was she? Did she warn of a man with tainted honor and a golden hand?"

"No, she warned of temptation, and being ruined for the marriage bed," Brienne scowls. "That was before I grew into _ this. _ It was all finding someone to suffer me after that."

"I won't be suffering; I assure you." 

Brienne touches the golden hand again, where it meets his wrist. She has to push his sleeve up to see the straps that anchor it. 

"Go ahead," Jaime tells her, nodding, "there's something right about you divesting me of it. You've seen it when it looked much worse."

His trust in her creates a lump in her throat. She undoes the straps and places the hand on the bedside table. The skin of Jaime's forearm is chafed under the straps, and calluses have formed. Brienne traces her fingertips over them, wishing there was something soothing about her touch. 

“You should ask the maester for something--”

"_Brienne_," Jaime closes his eyes and leans against her again, "you don't have to--"

"Are you more comfortable without it?" 

Touching the scar tissue doesn't bother her; it's rough, but her hands are accustomed to holding a sword, so there's nothing soft about her, either. And, Jaime is right--she saw it when it was much, much harder to look at.

"Others are more comfortable _ with _ it," there's no bitterness there, "And sometimes I am; it depends."

"Well, despite the usefulness of the tactic in a brawl, I don't want to be hit with it while I'm sleeping."

Jaime watches her as she pulls down the blanket and blows out her lamp. Then, there's only moonlight, and she can't read his expression. When Brienne climbs under the blanket, Jaime follows her.

"I've never--" he starts.

"I know," Brienne finishes, “neither have I.”

And she understands the desperation in Jaime's grip, and the way he presses his forehead against her sternum. She's sad, then, because it's such a simple gesture to want, and it has such an impact on him. Jaime's left hand tangles in the fabric of her shirt, and he tucks the right under her pillow. Brienne wished for this, on Tarth, so holding him close feels right. Her last thought is that this is even _ better _ because she can still hear the sea out her window.

* * *

Jaime wakes up harder than Casterly fucking Rock. 

Then, he panics, for multiple reasons. 

_ Cersei is going to kill me_. What were the circumstances of falling asleep in her bed? She never stayed, and certainly never let him doze. She always said, "It's too dangerous; what if someone sees you?" Jaime never got the impression it hurt her, though, to send him away after she was done with him.

_ Brienne. _ Right. Now that he's awake, the memories filter back in. She'd invited him to stay, and it was like being back on Tarth, minus the excruciating pain. He'd turned over at some point, which is a blessing because maybe he can dislodge himself without Brienne _ noticing_. She's all solid warmth at his back, and Jaime can feel her breath against the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he _ really _doesn't want to get up.

No, Jaime wants to turn over and pick up where they left off last night. A blush would spread across her freckled cheeks, but she wouldn’t shame him for his attraction to her. She’s still confused by it, but a kiss would distract her, like teasing her during a fight. She’d inevitably notice how aroused he is, but how bad is that, really?

Cersei would mock him for it, saying that he was pathetic, or had poor impulse control; she was always so quick to lord his desire over him, to sate it in drips at her convenience. Brienne is the antithesis of that--she _ held _ him, with no expectations other than she’d sensed he needed it. There was no trick, no doling out her affection to string him along. He’d dreamed of holding Cersei like Brienne is holding him for _ so _long.

Jaime feels her nose in his hair, and wonders if Brienne is awake. He _ does _ need to get up--someone will notice his absence, eventually, and there’s always _ duty. _There will be another night; although, the concept of discretion makes his chest ache. Brienne deserves someone who can love her openly, and Jaime’s had enough of secrets.

Brienne would get up and greet the day’s tasks, so Jaime does. She shifts to fill the space he vacated, and Jaime slides his fingers through her hair. How do people do _ anything _ productive in a situation like this? Every ounce of his being is saying _ stay, stay, stay. _

He finds a scrap of paper on Brienne’s desk, writes _ work _ on it in his atrocious left-handed penmanship, and leaves it on her bedside table, confident that Brienne will get his meaning.

* * *

Avoiding Cersei was remarkably easy--she ceased coming to him after enough rebukes; Jaime wounded her pride as she saw her power waning, and Cersei hated nothing more than to appear desperate. Ironically, there was a time when he wanted her to chase him, but the thought left him cold, now.

So, he’s seen her, but it’s been in the throne room, or in Robert’s presence, or at a distance--all times where she would never dare approach him about their relationship, even before it was severed. Today, though, Cersei finds him with Tommen and Myrcella in tow.

“Ser Uncle!” Tommen blurts, letting go of Cersei’s hand--he’s holding a squirming kitten under his arm; it’s orange, but Jaime has no idea which one it is. Tommen keeps changing their names, and there are so many of them.

Jaime hugs the boy, his _ son_, his nephew--it doesn’t matter. 

Myrcella curtsies, “Hello, Uncle Jaime.” She’s like a looking glass into the past, standing next to Cersei.

“Hello,” Jaime answers, picking up Tommen and the kitten.

Cersei is giving him an unreadable look, which is both frustrating _ and _liberating; he should know her like he knows his own mind. Then again, he knows himself less lately, too, so maybe it’s expected. She looks like she wants to say something, but the children hold her tongue. Who knew Tommen would be a shield? 

Jaime would rather play with Tommen and all dozen of his kittens, but he can’t avoid his sister for eternity, so he puts the boy back on the ground. “Myrcella, can you take Tommen and go play?”

She nods, and Jaime transfers Tommen’s hand to hers and watches them go into the nearby courtyard. He puts the kitten on the ground, and Myrcella ends up chasing Tommen chasing the kitten.

“_ Uncle_,” Cersei opens with; she even manages to make _ that _ sound hateful.

“Would you prefer I be something else?”

“There’s nothing else you _ can _ be,” she answers, and for all the cruelty in her tone, she’s correct.

“I’m sure you found me for a reason. What do you want?”

Cersei laughs, “Oh, brother, how you’ve _ changed_. A year ago, you would have crawled to me like a dog if I asked.”

Tommen and Myrcella shouting drown out any trace of their conversation.

Anger rushes through him, and Jaime is strangely glad for it. Anger is better than the complex swirl of emotions he usually feels toward her, so confusing that he can’t even parse them. “People change,” he answers. _ You certainly did, though it took me years to notice. _

“Does having that great beast warming your bed make you a new man?” Cersei steps closer, and Jaime wishes she wouldn’t. “I suppose, for her, even a cripple fucking her would be more than she’d expect. Does she cry out for you when you use the tricks I taught you? If you can still manage them, in your _ state_.”

_ Brienne would pity her in this moment_, Jaime thinks, _ She’d take some high road, a path I can’t even seen. _

“You’ve no right to ask me about that after you fucked Lancel,” Jaime answers, with a steadiness that surprises him. There’s no jealousy left in him--when he thinks of his sister, he just feels hollow.

“Or do I have it wrong?” Cersei continues. He _ knows _ that tone--it’s designed to cut, and he used to laugh with her at the target of it. “Is _ that _ the appeal? Do you let her hold you down, your _ knight_, while she fucks _ you_?”

The worst thing is that Jaime _ has _ imagined that, and to hear the fantasy, so spitefully, from Cersei, floods him with a sense of disgust. At her, or at himself, he isn’t sure.

“Is _ this _ your entire point? Do you imagine yourself clever by mocking me?”

“Actually,” she leans even closer until her hair brushes against him, “As fun as this is, there _ is _ something more pressing--Jon Arryn _ might _ know our secret.”

There’s a hint of nervousness in her tone, like this is an obstacle she can’t surmount by being a Lannister. It’s also _ not _ something Tywin can get them out of. Jaime is hit with a feeling of blind panic, like he’s not going to be able to draw his sword in time. 

“How would he?”

“I overheard that he’s been looking through family histories, and searching for raven-haired, blue-eyed bastards birthed by whores.”

Jaime looks at Myrcella and Tommen, still playing across the courtyard, their golden hair shining in the morning sun. “...There’s no golden Baratheons.”

He cares not for his own safety--Robert would have his head, probably, and it would be seventeen years past due. They would probably make his execution a feast day. His _ children_, though, even Joffrey--making bastards of them is one thing, but who would protect them from Robert? 

“We have to kill him,” Cersei is so low Jaime can barely hear her.

“We can’t fucking _ kill _ the Hand of the King,” Jaime answers, just as quietly, “The Seven Kingdoms will fall apart. Your husband does nothing but drink and whore; Jon Arryn _ runs _ this kingdom.”

“Family is everything,” Cersei is louder now, and she grabs his arm, “Unless you’ve forgotten that, too?”

“I haven’t, but we can’t just _ murder _ someone on a suspicion you have. Looking for Robert’s bastards doesn’t _ mean _anything--”

Cersei steps back from him--her face is all harsh lines, and her green eyes are cold, “I’ll protect _ my _ children. Bring them back to their septa before the afternoon.”

When she storms out of the courtyard, Jaime barely succeeds in laughing when Myrcella pulls Tommen to him, covered in dirt.

* * *

There are six new pages, and Arya is both the youngest and the smallest--the exact opposite of Brienne herself, who had been taller than all of them and nearly the oldest. 

_ She’s...plucky_, Brienne thinks as she watches Arya argue with one of the other pages over something neither of them are correct about.

“Enough!” 

All six of them stop their grumbling and look to her. It’s just a gaggle of children, but they’re looking at her with respect because she’s a knight, and that is the _ best_.

“Knights don’t squabble like hens in a yard.”

“Sorry, ser,” says one of pages, Podrick Payne. He’s the one who looks at her with the same wide-eyed expression. She associates the continued stare with some jape at her appearance, but Podrick never says a word.

She has them fetch practice swords, deliberating how to pair them up. Last time, Arya wanted to use her own sword, aptly named Needle, and Brienne had to convince her that wasn’t fair when no one else held _ actual _blades.

“Podrick, go with Arya.”

He looks nervous, and it has everything to do with Arya being herself, and _ not _ because of her gender. 

“Scared to fight a girl?” Arya calls out to him, sword in hand. “I’ll win.”

“No!”

_ At least he didn’t say “my lady.” _

Training had a unique impact on social hierarchy, in that it rendered it largely irrelevant. Arya was the page of noblest birth by far, but by looking at the group, nothing about their make up was clear.

Arya flies at Podrick, and Brienne marvels at how different Arya’s disposition is from her own. She heckles the other pages, claiming her superiority. She’s small, but she’s quick, and poor Podrick still barely has any idea what he’s doing, even with a wooden sword.

“You’re a wimp!” Arya calls out, stepping back to give him a chance to get up. 

“I’m--” Podrick starts, and, unhappily, Brienne turns to look at how the other pairs are faring.

Arya’s commentary carries across the yard, even as Brienne makes suggestions on stances to the other pairs. Arya wears her gender like a badge of honor, calling on it when she needs support. It’s so different from Brienne’s own tactic of burying her femininity that she almost thinks she could learn something from the girl.

And, most importantly, the other pages get along with her.

Podrick _ is _ getting better. Brienne watches them out of the corner of her eye. They are, by far, the most animated of the three pairs. He manages to parry Arya’s strikes more than once, and feints to the side, making her miss.

“Ha!” Arya yells when she knocks Podrick to the ground. Then, she holds out her hand and helps him up.

* * *

Brienne stares at him all throughout dinner; others do, too, but that probably has more to do with the fact that the Kingslayer is eating in the mess hall with Ser Brienne, and the green pages who insist on sitting with her.

The meal is stew and bread, which are lovely because it means Jaime doesn't have to fight his food one-handed. In truth, he’s been incredibly distracted by his conversation with Cersei for the past three days.

“Jaime,” Brienne snaps her fingers to get his attention, “you’ve been holding that spoonful of soup aloft for nearly a minute. Do you need help?”

_ She’s _ teasing him, now, and that creates a happy spark in him; it’s not enough to chase the shadow of Jon Arryn’s potential knowledge from his mind, but it’s something.

“Are you offering to feed me, wench?” Jaime whispers in reply, “That _ might _ not be appropriate in front of the children.”

The pages seem to be having a foodfight comprised mostly of bread, thankfully; they are so engrossed that Jaime could probably kiss Brienne across the table and go unnoticed. Only Arya Stark is watching him, but _ why _ Jaime can’t tell. She looks like she’s judging him, maybe, and the direction of her gaze shifts from him, to Brienne, and then back. He’s only met her thrice, but she’s an unsettling child, like a wild northern beast, gray-eyed and wary of everything.

“You seem distracted,” Brienne answers, “and it’s strange that you chose to eat here.”

“I wanted to gaze upon your beauty after a long day.” 

Brienne lobs a hunk of bread at him in the spirit of the pages at the other end of the long table. “Oh, fuck off.”

The conversation with Cersei has him on edge, and he can’t decide what to do about it. Should he tell Brienne? She would offer to help, but what good would that do? She’d suggest something straightforward, like asking Jon Arryn. Then, she’d get dragged into whatever machinations Cersei was planning.

No, he wouldn’t tell her, not unless he had to.

“It’s true, my lady,” Jaime doesn’t want her to intuit that something _ is _ wrong, so he smiles in a way he knows she’ll react to. “Your eyes could drag a man to the depths of the ocean. They’d willingly fling themselves into Shipbreaker Bay for a second glimpse.”

“You’re an ass,” Brienne groans, but blushes like a fucking sunset as she tries hide her face in her mug. She’s smiling, a shy expression Jaime has learned is only for him. It’s a victory, maybe one more glorious than any earned with a sword in his hand, to have earned her trust.

Later, Jaime trails her back to her room, and when the hallway is clear, he follows her inside. Maybe Cersei was right, that he is less Lannister lion and more loyal hound when the gilding wears thin. The only difference now is that he sees, clearly, who he is following and _ why_. He wants the conversation with Cersei burned from his mind--it will come back, certainly, with all its implications, and may ruin him. Brienne has the power to accomplish that level of distraction; although, doubtless, she doesn’t realize what she wields.

So, Jaime touches her cheek, whispers, “I’m under your command, ser,” into Brienne’s ear, and delights at the way she shivers. 

* * *

“I think you were correct about Arya, Ser Brienne,” Lord Stark tells her one afternoon. 

The pages are off with another instructor, and Brienne sits down for the first time in several hours. “Being protective is understandable. You journeyed halfway across Westeros to leave her here.”

Brienne knows Lord Stark spends some of his days with Robert, or the small council, but in the absence of that, he observes Arya from a distance he doesn’t think is noticeable. 

It's definitely noticeable, though.

“She’s the fiercest of my children,” he muses, “She reminds me of my sister, Lyanna, sometimes. Arya has the same spirit. I think she would have run away if I hadn’t agreed.”

Lyanna Stark--the woman who Robert started his rebellion for. Jaime told her Lyanna hadn’t even loved Robert, but Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. 

“My father said the same thing, that I would have come here, with or without his permission,” Brienne answers. It’s better than a tense conversation with Lord Stark about Robert’s Rebellion--she’d been a babe then, anyway, so she had nothing of value to add except her opinion. In truth, she thinks Robert was selfish to create so much discord. He was a better king than Aerys, though, because he surrounded himself with people willing to do his job.

Robert _ also _ capitalized off Jaime’s good deed and ruined honor.

“How did you come to be squire to the Kingslayer? You're the heir to the Evenstar, and the first woman to train as a knight; it's quite a slight to pair you up."

_ Call him Ser Jaime_, she wants to say, _ he has a name. _

Brienne wondered, in the few times she’s spoken to Lord Stark in the week since he’d arrived in King’s Landing, when he was going to ask her that. Preparing a lie, or an untruth, never occurred to her.

“It was meant as discouragement.” The spite of it makes her happy to admit it. “Lord Tywin wants Ser Jaime to quit the Kingsguard, so it was meant to shame him by matching him with a woman.”

“I take it the plan did _ not _ have the intended effect?”

“That was over a year and a half ago.”

Lord Stark laughs, "I can't say I'm sad to hear of a plan orchestrated by Tywin Lannister failing."

"His ire is...an amusing consequence." 

"But now you're buried up to your neck in Lannisters," he shudders like a chill passes through him.

"They're evenly divided on their tolerability." 

Lord Stark looks skeptical, but generations of bad blood will do that; old houses have long memories, and the Lannister mantle means more than one family member's actions. “Is that so?”

“It’s true that Ser Jaime doesn’t make enough effort to ingratiate himself with others. He told me once, something Lord Tywin said about a lion and the opinions of sheep.” The exact wording eludes her, but the meaning was clear: Lannister superiority. “If you can look past the veneer, he’s not like his father, or his sister.”

“You believe that, truly?”

_ With everything I am_. Would she have answered the same a week ago, before Jaime kissed her? Brienne knows she would; she’s not a naive girl anymore, addled by romantic daydreams of being a knight, or being kissed by a knight. Jaime proves himself to her through deeds everyday, as he’s done since the day she became his squire. 

Kissing him is wonderful, and she hopes he’ll grace her door with his presence again, but it has no bearing when she answers Lord Stark with, “I believe in his honor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably preaching to the choir here, but I've spent more time than I'd willingly admit thinking about the dynamic between these two idiots when it comes to sex. Fandom consensus _seems_ to be that Brienne tops the shit out of Jaime, and I don't disagree, as you can probably discern from Jaime's fantasies thus far. However, I _do_ think it wouldn't come naturally to Brienne, for a variety of reasons (gender norms, self-esteem, personality, lack of experience), which is honestly what makes it so interesting ahahahaha.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I was just thinking this encounter seems backward. Should I be pinned against the door?" she smiles, a bit tremulous._
> 
> _"Is that what you want?"_
> 
> _Jaime can't pin her--it would be a ruse, her feigning a delicacy she lacks. Brienne doesn’t want that. _
> 
> _"No."_
> 
> _“Is it what you want?” she returns the question._
> 
> _Some of Jaime’s confidence slides back into place, and he smirks at her, “No.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys again for all the hits and reviews and kudos. They fill my heart with glee!
> 
> If you're in the US, it's a holiday weekend! To celebrate, I present to you a chapter than is 75% porn, or porn-related. Writing smut takes like five years off my life. Whew.

Brienne’s gaggle of pages improve as autumn comes to a close. She’s asked to evaluate and rank them; although, Brienne decides to keep the ranking to herself. She remembers, acutely, being told she was the best, better than Hyle or Loras or any of her peers. Pride filled her, at first--she was young, and a girl, and only thought about proving her worth. 

Then, they’d used her skill to mock her. 

She wants her cohort to get along, and pitting them against each other this early never did her any favors. So, she tells the pages areas where they excel, and areas where they need to focus on improving. Arya has speed on her side, and Ser Beric mentions she's the best on horseback. She's rash, though, prone to striking wildly when guarding would be more sensible. 

Brienne spends way too many hours deliberating how to pair then up and ensure they learn from one another. 

Then, there was Podrick Payne, currently face down in the dirt. Something about Podrick makes Brienne want to walk over, pick him up, and dust him off.

"He's terrible," Loras tells her one morning, "the boy will get gutted in seconds in a real fight."

"He's twelve, and that's why he's _ training_."

Loras laughs, and Brienne can remember all the noble ladies twittering about the Knight of the Flowers at the last tourney. His golden eyes and flowing brown locks made him the topic of much swooning. _ Too bad, for them at least, that he lays with men_. Although, Renly is probably quite pleased with Loras’s looks. Once, that might have made Brienne childishly jealous.

"I’m sure you were better at his age."

"You know I was," Brienne answers.

Brienne watches Arya sweep Josmyn Peckledon’s legs out from under him. He curses when he hits the dirt, and Arya cackles and yells "Yield!"

"The Stark girl is...spirited."

"_Too _ spirited. She needs to learn restraint."

Arya echoes across the yard; Brienne sighs. Her brash confidence carries her through the moments when she _ not _ holding a sword. Brienne understands why Lord Stark watches her with such pride.

Loras turns to her with a wry grin, “It’s a few years out, but imagine having her as a squire.” 

“She’ll keep whomever it is busy.”

They fall into silence, and Brienne focuses on watching the pages, occasionally glancing at Loras.

"How's the Kingslayer?" Loras asks after a moment.

“I believe he’s well,” Brienne answers, suddenly deeply interested in Podrick’s trouncing; the poor lad is _ covered _ in dust.

_ This _ is the problem with their secret--Brienne can’t find _ any _ insinuation in Loras’s tone, yet she tenses immediately, and her face is in flames. Mayhaps she should just wear a sign declaring it to the entire city?

“...You _ believe_?” No, _ there’s _ the insinuation. “The two of you are joined at the hip during every spare moment.”

The word _ joined _ is harmless, except to Brienne’s apparently traitorous, salacious mind. They’d only _ kissed_.

“We trained early this morning, and he didn’t indicate any displeasure.” Jaime snuck down her hallway at dawn, and Brienne tried _ not _to dwell on how adept he was at it. Jaime was all smiles when they met in the Tower training yard a half-hour later.

Loras _ laughs_, “You keep unique company, Ser Brienne.”

Then, she scowls at him, “How fares Lord Renly these days?”

It’s not the most pithy of retorts, but Loras looks at her like he won’t ask about Jaime again, and that suits Brienne just fine.

* * *

“Arya mentioned the Knight of Flowers would be here, so Sansa begged me to bring her,” Lord Stark whispers to her. 

Sansa stands next to him, looking decidedly out of place in her long-sleeved, Northern-style gown. Her hair is done in a series of complex braids that Brienne loses track of as she stares at the back of Sansa’s head. The hair that isn’t braided cascades down the girl’s back in auburn waves.

Loras _ is _ present, though, returning after last week at Brienne’s request. He’d smiled smugly when she asked, and said, “I _ suppose _ Lord Renly can do without me for the morning.”

“He sits on the Small Council all morning with a Kingsguard outside the door, and Ser Barristan _ inside _the room, of course he can spare you.”

Brienne wonders if it’s Jaime this morning; he’d told her, once, how boring it was. It amazed her how much time a Kingsguard spent standing outside doors. 

The pages like Loras--he’s flashy, and charming, and kind when they need corrected. Diversity of technique seems important, too, and it’s good for them to see someone more agile. Everyone seems taken with him except Arya, who narrows her eyes in a way Brienne has learned means she’s critical of someone.

“How is Arya doing?” Lord Stark asks Brienne, watching his daughter dance around her sparring partner.

In the background, Arya yells at Podrick to “Stab him with the pointy end!”

“Well,” Brienne answers, trying not to smile, “She’s spirited, and agile.”

“Spirited,” he repeats, smiling.

“There’s a swordsman from Braavos here at court.”

“Water dancing?”

“He did a demonstration for us, once,” Brienne nods, “It’s fluid and fast--it might suit her.”

Sansa seems enamored with Loras; her cheeks are tinged rosy and she follows him across the training yard. Eventually, he ends up paired with Arya, who seems even more aggressive than usual.

“She stands no chance,” Lord Stark whispers to Brienne, “but look at Arya _ try_.”

The pairing seems of particular interest to Sansa. Does she want Arya to win? Brienne had only seen the sisters interact a handful of times, but they always seemed to be at each other’s throats. She remembers, a little, arguing with Galladon. Would she have argued with her sisters if they’d lived?

Brienne _ knows _the look Sansa gives Loras--she looked at Renly that way when he’d visited Tarth. He’d danced with her, even though she was nearly taller them him, even then. There was nothing to it, of course, just courtly etiquette, but it was so formative to her girlish heart. She had been Sansa’s age, then, wide-eyed with childish love. A younger Brienne would have been envious of Sansa’s beauty; she could have a knight, or a prince, and look like a lady beside either.

“There’s a tourney, in mid-winter; you should bring Lady Sansa to watch.”

A knight might crown Sansa the Queen of Love and Beauty. Sansa would like that; Brienne secretly would have, too.

“She wants to marry Prince Joffrey; Robert likes the idea, too. Finally, tying the houses of Baratheon and Stark together.”

_ Not a Baratheon at all. _ Brienne winces, and Lord Stark notices, “My lord, it’s not my place, but--”

Lord Stark shakes his head, “I’ve seen little of Prince Joffrey, but I have no intention of leaving _ both _ my daughters in King’s Landing. At least Arya will have a sword and has no interest in princes.”

* * *

Arya corners Brienne after morning lessons end, and the pages move to the dining hall for lunch. Brienne shouldn’t feel cornered by someone as small as the youngest Stark girl, but there’s definitely a formidableness to her.

“Come here,” Arya commands, and Brienne kneels down without questioning. “I overheard something I thought an adult should know.”

“I believe I count,” Brienne answers.

“I was in the tunnels under the Red Keep,” Arya starts.

“_ Why _ were you there?”

Arya shrugs, “I was chasing cats.”

“Chasing...cats?”

“Anyway, I heard two men talking about planning to kill the Hand of the King.”

* * *

"Come here."

Brienne grabs Jaime's wrist, pulling him along the corridor. 

"_Wench_," he begins, but goes quiet when she pushes him through her chamber door and closes it. Jaime presses his back against the rough-hewn wood when Brienne looks to him. His eyes widen, and he inhales sharply. 

"Feeling assertive today?"

"_Arya_," Brienne whispers, then, "wait, _ what_?"

"You forcibly dragged me inside your chambers, ser. How _ should _I take such an overture?"

Jaime's smile, all innuendo, makes her stomach do its usual drop. Brienne has her hand flat on the door near his head, and Jaime kisses the inside of her wrist, moving upwards until he reaches her sleeve. 

"Arya, you were saying?"

"_Yes_," Brienne tries half-heartedly to free her wrist, "she overheard someone plotting to kill Jon Arryn."

Jaime freezes, still pressed awkwardly against the soft skin of her inner forearm. It tickles, and Brienne _ almost _ laughs.

"_Where _ was the little she-wolf when she heard this?" 

"Somewhere under the Red Keep--there are passageways everywhere. She said she was chasing cats."

"Chasing...and we're just... permitting that?"

"If Lord Stark can't stop her, what hope do I have?"

Jaime thumps his head against the door, “Did she happen to see the parties who were speaking?”

Brienne shakes her head, “Arya couldn’t move from her hiding place, and there’s no way she’d recognize voices; she’s barely been here two months.”

“She chose _ you _ to be her confidant.”

“Lord Stark is looking for any reason to take her home. If the capital is unsafe, he’ll feel justified,” Brienne lets her hand fall to her side. “I wouldn’t tell him either, in Arya’s case.”

Jaime answers with a single, dismissive _ ha_, “ _ That’s _ what would make him deem it unsafe here? If he hasn’t noticed yet--”

“I know you’ve little regard for him.”

“That’s irrelevant here,” Jaime says, “Do you think there’s validity in what the girl said?”

“I see no reason for Arya to make something like that up. How would she even come up with the idea on her own?"

Jaime closes his eyes, "I think I know who."

"Seven hells, why didn't you just _ say _ so?"

"... Because it's Cersei."

Brienne puts her hand beside Jaime's head again, hard enough to startle his eyes open. She still towers over him, and Jaime swallows, once, and watches her. 

"Were you planning on sharing that information with me?"

"No."

"_Why_?"

"Because you're looking at me like you want to fucking help."

"Of _ course _ I want to fucking help!" Brienne stops herself from outright yelling.

"I don't want _ you _ tangled in whatever trap she thinks she's setting. Cersei thinks she's our father, but she's just clever enough to make a mess." 

"She's clearly moved beyond thoughts and veiled threats." Brienne doesn't have the head for schemes, but even if Cersei is half as good as she thinks she is, it's worth paying attention. "Did your sister say _ why_?"

Jaime's gaze skitters away from her--over her shoulder, up to the ceiling. Impatience nearly compels her to say _ tell me_, but she waits.

"Cersei suspects Lord Arryn _ knows._"

"About you and…" Brienne stops, the full extent dawning on her, "_ oh_, the children, too?"

If shame were palpable, Jaime would be mired in a miasma of it, so strong is the emotion coming off him. He shuts his eyes again and sags against the door. He hasn’t looked this exhausted since Tarth, and the loss of his hand. There are dark smudges under his eyes, and she wants to reach up and smooth out the crease at his brow.

"You see, now, why I didn't tell you? If Jon Arryn _ really _does know the truth if it, then whatever happens is our punishment."

"But it's not _ theirs_, Jaime." Brienne puts her hands on his shoulders and shakes him gently. "If King Robert finds out…?"

"I honestly don't know."

"They're _ yours _ to protect," Brienne tightens her grip on Jaime's shoulders. "But...you didn't offer to help Cersei."

"She loves them, for all else that she is, and will do anything to protect them. I told her we couldn't just murder the Hand of the King. He's needed; why should _ he _ pay the price for finding the truth? We did a _ terrible _ thing to all three of them, by--"

There it is again, the crushing yoke of Jaime's sins. There's a part of him, Brienne can see it in his weary expression, that _ wants _ the justice Robert would mete out. 

"Living with your choices takes bravery," Brienne says evenly, "And you're not craven."

"I certainly never thought so, but lately I feel like I am."

Brienne slides her hands up Jaime's neck to take his face between her hands. He looks stricken, and Brienne wonders if he is going to weep. She kisses him, pours sincerity into the gesture, despite its brevity. When she pulls back, his eyes look watery.

"You're changing," she whispers, "you _ have _ changed. Change, even if it's _ good_, is frightening." 

"If I'm improved, it's only by your grace," Jaime chokes, "and I am _ terrified_."

"I take no credit; I only let you see yourself clearly," Brienne tries to sound like she's stating a fact. "Well, let's uncover the plot. I've no experience unraveling intrigue, but, together, we'll manage something."

"_Together_," Jaime repeats; he makes it sound like an oath.

Jaime’s moods weren’t hard to master once she knew what to look for. He wears a mask, sometimes, of glibness or indifference, and never _ asks _ for anything. She knows he has been bereft of affection, and she usually guesses right when that's what he seeks. 

_ This _ seems like one of those moments.

He touches the hair that brushes her shoulders, and the sigh that leaves him drives Brienne forward to press her lips against his once more. She’s not _ good _ at kissing, and lets Jaime lead with anything beyond the briefest of contact. Today, though, Jaime looks like he _ can’t_, and Brienne half thinks he’ll slump to the floor without her hold on him.

When she releases him, moments later, Jaime _ does _ sink toward the floor, and Brienne impulsively slides her leg between his to catch him. Then, _ then _ she feels--

Jaime freezes, and Brienne stares, and maybe neither of them breath for an ever-lengthening stretch of time, but that’s untenable. When Jaime does, it all comes out in a rush, and he says, "_ Wench_."

“_Oh_,” she says, pointlessly. “Y-you're--”

Her dreadful septa’s voice enters her mind, telling her _men are base beasts with baser needs_\--although Brienne herself would _never _need to worry about such a thing. Her face is on fire, and she can't tear her gaze away from Jaime's wide-eyed stare. 

Is he _ flushed_? 

Jaime pushes himself further upright to create distance between them.

“...You found Casterly Rock, after a fashion,” Jaime laughs, a weak chuckle at the flatness of the joke.

It’s not like Brienne doesn’t _ know_. Jaime kissed her, repeatedly, flirts with her mercilessly, told her he _ loved _her. When he stays in her room, he clings to her in his sleep until she kicks the blankets away to cool herself. 

Of course he _ wants_.

“I--is it _ indecent_, for me to--?” Brienne can't articulate what she wants. She wants _ him_, and wants to be desired in return.

“I’ve never thought so, but people will tell you otherwise.” Jaime closes his eyes, “A knight kissed me against a door; how else would a maiden react?”

“You’re not a maiden,” Brienne scowls, “And I didn’t _ mean _\--”

Jaime opens his eyes and takes her right hand in his left, twining their fingers together. “I know. You’re _ strong_.” Then, he presses their joined hands against the door next to his head. 

Brienne tilts her head, looking at their linked hands. She reels a bit from the concept, but the idea that Jaime would seek her strength outside of holding a sword makes her happy; although, she can’t conceive of what she would do, or what _ they _would do with the information. 

"Are you...embarrassed?" 

"_Mortified_, among other things," Jaime blurts, "but don't stop on my account; It will pass."

Something about this seems incredibly backwards. Brienne is supposed to lie back, be pliant, and pray for a son. Jaime should pursue her, taking his pleasure with not a thought spared for her. Even a whore has a defined role. There's no name, at least not one Brienne knows, for a woman who pins a man to her chamber door.

"Kingslayer's Whore," she muses, mostly to herself. Is that right? She doesn't _ feel _ like that.

"_Never_," Jaime says, "You're Ser Brienne. You're the Warrior _ and _the Maiden--"

Gods, who is Jaime even looking at? She doesn’t doubt him, but she can’t imagine seeing in herself what he sees. She loosens her hand against the door, but Jaime shakes his head and holds her tighter.

"I was just thinking this encounter seems backward. Should _ I _ be pinned against the door?" she smiles, a bit tremulous.

"Is that what _ you _want?"

Jaime _ can't _ pin her--it would be a ruse, her feigning a delicacy she lacks. Brienne doesn’t want that. 

"No."

“Is it what _ you _want?” she returns the question.

Some of Jaime’s confidence slides back into place, and he smirks at her, “No.”

“Women don’t--”

"Don't concern yourself with the opinions of sheep." 

"Is _ now _ the time to paraphrase your father?" 

Jaime chuckles, "The irony of using his advice _ here _ is almost better than accidentally rutting against your leg."

"The Warrior and the Maiden," Brienne whispers. They're close enough that she could kiss him again, and she _ will_, but Jaime seems content with the odd tension she's forced between them. "Do you really--?"

"It's a fortunate thing I've never been much for prayer, anyway."

"The _ maiden _part…" Now, it's her turn to suggest something wholly indecent. "Is that...central?"

"I don't think laying with someone will taint your goodness, but I _ am _a Lannister."

"Tell me," Brienne says, "please, what do you want?" Someone who's not her could make that sound seductive, but she just sounds surly and impatient.

"To fuck you," he says plainly. "Or the reverse. Does it matter? I don't think it matters."

“What about your Kingsguard oaths?”

“I am surely not the first Kingsguard to take a lover. I bet every one of them has.”

_ Lover_. There's not even the _ language _ to describe how she feels; everything is on fire, but maybe that's lust and _ not _ embarrassment. 

“I don't think Ser Barristan has _ ever _had a lover.”

“Fair point. That man takes his job _ very _seriously.”

He’ll be breaking an oath--one he’s broken before, and she’ll become complicit. She takes a deep breath, "You'll have to show me what to do." 

"It's not _ terribly _ challenging."

* * *

It _ feels _ challenging, though, when Brienne lets go of his hand and steps away from him. Jaime misses the contact instantly, the feel of her muscular thigh pressed against him. It’s a momentary loss, a prelude to something better. 

Brienne moves back across the span of the floor with each step he takes until she reaches the bed. Jaime honestly thought Brienne would reject him. He’s nervous, delightfully so--it hums under his skin, and makes his fingers itch to touch, and touch, and _ touch_; he can’t even lament that he only has one hand to do it with.

"Think of it like a sword fight," Jaime tells her when he gets to her. 

"And who's the victor?" There's just a _ hint _ of challenge in Brienne's tone; this is going to be so, _ so _good.

"Both, if you're doing it right."

Or, he _ hopes _ that’s the case--with Cersei, he isn’t sure if he was ever the victor.

Jaime kisses her this time, hand in her hair and the golden one pressed uselessly against her back. He'll remove it in a minute; it's nothing worth losing momentum over. It _ is _like sparring with her, even left-handed, because while his skill is diminished, it hasn't damaged their rapport. When Brienne needs to catch her breath, Jaime nips at her bottom lip, where she always worries at it when she's nervous. That makes Brienne gasp, and then she strikes, hands framing his face again.

She pulls him onto her bed, a dull thud against the feather-stuffed mattress when they land. She smells like leather and the oil she uses to clean her blade; Cersei’s floral scent had always intoxicated him, but Brienne smells like a knight. Jaime is above her, pressed against her in _ most _ of the right places. Brienne can certainly feel Jaime's cock against her, but so what? He'd told her with words, so showing her should be easy. He'd kept a lot of secrets, _ still _ keeps many of them, but wanting her won't be one of them.

"See, _ exactly _like a sword fight," he says, smiling down at her, "after a fashion."

"Do you have be cheeky _ all _ the time?" she sounds fondly exasperated. 

They kiss again, and Brienne cedes control, rewarding Jaime with a breathy sigh. He pushes himself up on his right elbow to look down at her. Brienne is all wide, sapphire eyes and flushed cheeks. Her beauty, or lack of it, means nothing in the wake of the expressiveness of her features, or her strength, or her ineffable kindness. 

Jaime isn't sure if Brienne is irritated or impatient or considerate, but she reverses their positions, and Jaime hits the mattress. The movement is sudden, but the ease at which she manages it goes straight to his cock. Having her above him is _ infinitely _ better. The golden hand is still useless against the blanket, but now his left is blessedly free. Brienne has one knee between his again, and he refrains from moving in any way that would create contact--there's no need to be impatient.

“Better,” Jaime mutters, mostly to himself; confusion crosses Brienne's features until he slides his hand under her top. He spares a thought, briefly, to Cersei’s pile of skirts. “Hmm, men’s garb makes this easier.” 

“Another benefit to looking horrid in dresses?”

“Armor is best, although more work to remove.” The skin on Brienne’s side is smooth, but the strength underneath is clear. He traces his fingers along, brushing over the occasional scar, proof of her vocation. He knows she’s all pale, untouched skin. He stops at her hip bone, then moves upward over the plane of her stomach.

Jaime pauses, and Brienne’s breath hitches, but she remains steady. He has to commend her fortitude--when she touches him, his unsteady foundation is going to crumble.

"I feel like I've discovered a great secret," Jaime says into the space between them, "why has no one else thought to touch you?"

She gives him her most mulish glare, like the answer in obvious; it only makes Jaime want to prove her wrong. He’s never liked losing. Taking a chance, he palms her breast, the image of her in the bath still in his mind; he’ll need to refresh that, soon. 

Brienne gasps, a girlish sound. Jaime repeats the motion, and she practically _ squeaks_, and, gods, she’ll kill him with her noises and tiny shifts in movement long before his cock comes anywhere near her. Then, the rough linen fabric is an obstacle, one Jaime would rip off if he had the means, and Brienne wouldn’t scold him. Not that he couldn’t replace it a hundred times over.

He grabs one side and pushes it, then awkwardly paws at the other side with his golden hand. “Useless bloody thing.”

“Let me,” Brienne smiles at him, softly, and some of the nervousness seem to leave her. Jaime’s a bit sad when she moves to kneel beside him, but her touch is gentle when puts the hand aside. He can’t imagine Cersei touching him so gingerly, and nothing highlights the difference between them so clearly. For all her strength, she’s _ tender_. It touches some buried, sentimental part of him.

Brienne watches him as she grabs the fabric he’d struggled with. “You’re...sure? I’m not--”

The adjectives she’d use to describe herself hang between them, unspoken.

“_Yes_, wench,” he uses his elbows to push himself seated and hopes he doesn’t sound frustrated, “I’ve _ seen _ you, remember? It was months ago, and my memory isn’t sufficient, so _ please_.”

In a combination effort, Brienne is divested of the offending article of clothing; Jaime tosses it onto the floor to eschew any attempt she might make at modesty. He reaches for her back, moving over the muscles in her shoulders, finally acquiring a tactile appreciation for things he’s admired from afar, or over clothes. Her gaze darts away from him--even if Brienne believes in his feelings, it doesn’t change the newness of the experience.

He doesn't actually remember the first time with Cersei, only that he doesn’t remember _ not _ being with her. The experience wouldn’t provide any insight now, either way. Tyrion would know the right words to say, to calm a lady, or woo her.

“Jaime?”

“You terrified me at first,” he admits. 

“You’re...nervous?”

“Intensely so.” 

“I’ve no basis to judge the quality.”

“A _ jest, _ from _ you_?” 

It says something that her stubborn stare excites him.

Brienne’s wish is to be loved as she is. So, he kisses her, then sets about showing her; words don’t sway her quite in the way deeds do. He kisses her neck, charting a trail down the column of it, delighting in her tiny gasps. Jaime’s mouth is near her breast when he whispers, “Only a blind fool wouldn’t notice you’re a woman.” 

“There are many blind fools, then.”

“Many,” he agrees, resting his forehead in the space between her breasts; they’re small, certainly, obscured completely in armor, but Brienne grabs his hair just the same when he moves his mouth across them. 

“_Jaime_.”

His name compels him to look at her, and he realizes, somewhat distantly, that Brienne’s reaching between them to undo the laces on his shirt. He lets her drag it over his head and toss it to the side. Smugly, he wonders if Brienne wants to deter _ his _ modesty. Then, she touches him with her hands that wield a sword so gloriously, and he’s delighted to let her. Brienne’s hands are calloused, and not dainty, but lightning follows where she touches him. Her touch is feather-light on his shoulders, which is ticklish. Then, she scratches her nails through the hair on his chest, which is _ better._ Finally, she quests south, which is _ best_, and he makes a noise that anyone but Brienne would surely mock him for.

Jaime takes her right hand in his left and brings it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “Sometimes, I think about you touching me when you’re holding your sword. Touching my cock with your strong grip, and...” he trails off--there’s a hundred daydreams he could fail to woo her with. 

Suddenly, a single scrap of clothing between them is _ unbearable_; does Brienne feel the same frenzy? Her eyes are all calm water; although, there’s surely more beneath her steadfastness, He only has one hand to divest himself of his remaining garments, so he lets go of her and reaches for his breeches. Brienne’s other hand is flat against his stomach, and she takes his meaning. Jaime’s nerves leave him, and he’s left with only scalding _ want_.

There’s quite a bit of fumbling, and they both realize they never took off their boots, which makes Brienne laugh. With Cersei, there was nothing but desperate possession, and certainly never laughter at her own expense. This is _ good _\--to laugh with Brienne, on the cusp of something new between them. 

When the boots are gone, the rest of the clothes come quickly enough.

“I’ve...thought about the bath, too,” Brienne whispers; she’s _ blushing _ like she just asked him to fuck her. She’s _ looking _ at him, though, and to be wanted by her is a gift he can’t repay.

“I’m a better showing this time around,” he grins, “less grime and self-pity. Although, the stump--”

Brienne takes his right arm and brings it to her lips, kissing the scar tissue at his wrist. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Jaime could weep for her kindness, but it would ruin the mood, so he pulls her to lie beside him. It’s better than sleeping next to her because he doesn’t have to worry about her waking up and discovering his increasingly overt reactions to her. Although, maybe that won’t be a problem now. He wants to touch her, and taste her, and has to remind himself that he has _ time_.

So, Jaime slides his left hand between her thighs, fingers slipping against the wetness he finds there. Brienne gasps, and shuts her eyes. He stumbles, uncoordinated, and has to stop himself from telling her he could have done better _ before_. Before doesn’t matter--the only thing that does is Brienne clutching at his shoulders when he slides two fingers into her. She presses her face into his shoulder, but adjusts her hips to give him better access as he works his thumb in a slow circle. 

“You’ve done this?”

Brienne nods into his shoulder, “With some guilt.”

Who did she think about? Renly? A knight from a song? Maybe _ him_? “You’ll have a better well to draw from now.”

As fumbling as he feels, when she hits her peak, and Brienne _ shouts, _ a battle-high sweeps through him. This round, at least, is _ his _ victory. Then, she catches him off-guard by circling his cock with her right hand. She doesn’t move, not really, but it’s her _ swordhand_, and her grip is as firm as he’d imagined it. 

“Wench.” Brienne looks at him--her hair looks a bit like a haystack, everything is flushed from kissing, and her blue eyes are a little dazed. “I’ll make it up to you later; I’ll bury my head between your thighs and--”

“_Jaime_,” she chokes, like she can’t let him finish.

He could _ show _ her; no, he _ will _show her.

“But right now, I--”

Brienne nods, and moves her hand against him, “I’m ready, if you’re ready.”

“You look like you’re about to face someone at the wrong end of your sword.”

“As a girl, I used to imagine the marriage bed that way,” she admits, “If it was like a fight, even if I lost, I wouldn’t show weakness.”

“It will be _ nothing _ like that,” Jaime vows; he can’t promise technique, but he can promise adoration until Brienne tires of it and smothers him with her pillow.

“I know.”

Jaime shifts, settling over her. Brienne is studying him, notices his shudder as the movement creates friction between them. She puts a hand against his right shoulder, and Jaime is touched to realize she means to hold him up if needed. Her other hand makes its way to cup his jaw, and he unconsciously leans into her.

“I'll show you something more adventurous next time.”

Brienne nods. When Jaime pushes into her, he moves so slowly he thinks he might not be moving at all. It’s torturous, but he keeps thinking _ Brienne’s a maiden_. _ People bet on taking this from her and she’s _ giving _ it to me_. 

Then, Brienne hooks a strong leg around him, _ pushes_, and suddenly Jaime remembers _ who _exactly he’s fucking. He’s reminded of jumping off the cliffs at Casterly Rock--there’s a moment of delightful terror looking down at the water from a great height, then the rush of fall, then he’s immersed in warmth. He searches her expression for a sign of discomfort, finding none.

"It’s not worse than being knocked off a horse, or stabbed with a sword,” Brienne whispers, amused.

“Of course, _ ser_,” Jaime responds, and Brienne smiles up at him.

They set a pace, or, more accurately, Brienne does--her leg around hm guides him, and she holds his face between her hands and kisses him so slowly Jaime thinks he might go mad from it. Sensation pulls him along like the tide, and when holding himself up becomes arduous, he collapses against her and doesn’t spare a thought to if Brienne will mind the weight of him.

“Next time, you can be on top,” Jaime mumbles into her ear. She blushes up her neck, but he doesn’t have the capacity to tease her about it. “The view will be considerably better.”

“I don’t mind this view.”

Jaime has to agree, even with the limitations of one hand. Burying his face into her shoulder is nice, and pressed together so closely, every time he thrusts, she shudders against him, which drives the frenzy that surges through him, creating a loop between them. And, most importantly, Brienne is an anchor that keeps him from being dragged out to sea. He talks to her, although if asked, Jaime couldn’t recount what he said--definitely her name, and some half-coherent lewd suggestions that make Brienne tighten her grip on his shoulder.

It’s her name that Jaime gasps when he spills into her. If kissing her was the death of one thing and the birth of another, it’s a trifle compared to this. She holds onto him until their breathing calms.

“I’m yours,” he says when he has the presence to look at her. “Even what I’m not free to give, you can have." Then, Jaime realizes he’s still _ inside _ her, and a mild panic overtakes him. “I-- _ moon tea_,” he blurts.

Brienne has the gall to look amused. “I went--”she starts, and _ then _ she’s blushing again, “I-I thought we--so I visited--anyway, it’s _ fine_.”

“_Now _ you’re shy, while I’m still seated in--?”

“_No_,” she interrupts, scowling, “_Someday_, I--”

“Any other high-born lady would be wedded and with child by your age.” Jaime certainly doesn’t want anymore bastards, either.

“I know,” she answers, and he can’t quite discern how the sentiment makes her feel.

When they’ve separated, and his head rests against Brienne’s shoulder, Jaime asks, “Was it better than your septa warned about?”

“I can’t think of how it could have been worse than her tales, but _ yes_,” Jaime can _ hear _ her smile, “The maester looked at me in disbelief. I think he thought I’d _ never _ need the moon tea.”

“_Fuck _ that maester. Let’s spend all day proving people wrong.”

“Is he one of the sheep I shouldn’t concern myself with?”

“Absolutely.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Podrick first becomes a feature of their morning sparring sessions, Jaime finds the boy irrationally irritating._
> 
> _“Is my left-handed swordsmanship so poor that you’re pawning me off on a page?”_
> 
> _Brienne glares at him, “Not everything revolves around you. Podrick needs extra help, and there are only so many hours in a day.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've resurrected my tumblr! Since I'm writing consistently, I thought I should have a space to screech and flail about Jaime and Brienne (people in real life _might_ be tiring of it). So you can find me at [kurikaesu-haru](https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/). I haven't done much with it yet, but follow me for writing updates. :D

King’s Landing is _full _of secrets--they slip between people like wind.

Most of them are harmless gossip; wealthy people have little to do, so they sit and made idle chatter. The smallfolk use rumors to entertain themselves; even the persistent talk of the parentage of King Robert’s children makes for a good story in a tavern or brothel in Flea Bottom.

Brienne has no trouble _ keeping _ secrets--she isn't a gossip, and if someone tries to engage her, they quickly lose interest because she has no juicy details of her own to add as kindling to the pyre. She’s kept Jaime’s secrets, and dozens of other less significant pieces of information for _ years_. What’s she’s unprepared for, though, is the reality of being complicit _ to _a secret, to be tangled up in one of her own making.

It comes down to two things: the first is that Brienne is a terrible liar and can’t even keep a mask up when someone asks about Jaime in the most general of senses. Loras asking, weeks ago, proved that. The second is the ease in which Jaime falls into the pattern of the clandestine nature of their trysts. It takes Brienne a few repetitions to notice the pattern, and she’s at a loss as to how to fix it.

“Stay,” she whispered into the darkness after the second time. The sweat was still cooling on her skin when he tried to slide out of her bed. If he wasn’t Jaime, Brienne would’ve thought he couldn’t stand to be near her when the fervor between them was spent. Jaime _ is _Jaime, though, and the single-minded attention he pays her would never end in sudden revulsion. No, this has nothing to do with her.

“But--” he began, and Brienne held up her hand to silence him.

“My father isn't going to barge in and throw you off a battlement for stealing my virtue," she tried to make light of it, but, even looking back, there's _ nothing _light about the situation.

Even though her jokes usually don't land, Jaime laughed and returned to her. "You don't think Lord Selwyn just _ knows_?"

"Gods, I hope not."

"If I do a good enough job, and you're _ loud _enough."

Jaime _ did _ stay, though, and fell asleep with his arm around her, forehead pressed against the nape of her neck. Then, he left when the sky outside her window lightened with the coming dawn. The pattern repeats each night Jaime stays with her. She usually wakes first, and Jaime kisses her and looks at her like she’s given him a precious gift.

The gift of _ what_, though? Of not being thrown out of his lover’s bed immediately after the deed? That’s not a _ gift_, it’s...decency. It doesn’t seem to matter to Jaime that some mornings he makes a show of asking her how she slept, even though he knows the answer. She allows him the performance of these conversations as best she can, hating all the while the ease at which he has them.

_ You deserve more_, she wants to tell him, _ you deserve to not be kept a secret. _

* * *

An instructor shouldn’t pick favorites, but Brienne likes Podrick the best out of all her pages. The boy isn’t good, far from it, and Loras had been right when he said Podrick would be gutted in seconds in a genuine fight. He’s kind, though, and that’s something worth nurturing; Brienne hopes the world won’t drain it out of him inch-by-inch. 

“Podrick,” Brienne finds him one afternoon in the armory, putting away things the others left scattered. 

“Yes, ser?” He’s bright red and holding a leather breastplate hugged to his chest like a child’s toy.

“Why did you enroll?” Podrick’s face falls, and he turns his large brown eyes to the ground. Brienne realizes the misstep in her phrasing. “I mean,” she begins anew, “what made you want to be a knight?”

“I’ve no family, ser,” Podrick starts, “My father died in the Greyjoy Rebellion, and my mother left me. I traveled with my cousin, a hedge knight, but he was killed. I ended up in Kevan Lannister’s army, and then I came here. Lord Kevan sent me to serve Lord Tyrion, but he told me to enroll. I...wasn’t good at setting out his clothes, and he doesn’t need a page”

It’s definitely the most words Podrick has said at once.

Tyrion _ would _ do something like that. What need did he have for a boy of Podrick’s age? She will have to thank him later. Brienne is overcome with a wave of sympathy, and she puts a hand on Podrick’s shoulder. The poor lad had been passed around like luggage. “I know what it’s like to be all alone.”

“You do, ser?”

“No one wanted to be friends with the girl who beat them,” she tells him. At least Podrick got along with the group. “Would you like to practice extra with me?”

He sighs sadly, “I know I’m the weakest with a sword.”

“You’re improving.”

That gets her a small smile, “Thank you, ser.”

“Early, then, before morning lessons,” Brienne answers, “you can practice with Ser Jaime, too.”

Podrick gulps.

* * *

Jaime isn’t a morning person; he prefers to rise when the sun is high enough in the sky that he doesn’t feel like its light exists just to spite him. Brienne, on the other hand, wakes with the precision of the city bells, and doesn’t even need to stay abed for a quarter hour to wake herself up. He’d never much considered how another person would impact his sleep preferences after a decade and a half of waking up alone in his room in White Sword Tower.

Creeping across the Keep like a thief in the night doesn’t bother him. He’s carried the weight of secrets far heavier for far longer. It’s usually better to stride down the hallway with purpose. Maybe it’s the mantle of the Kingssgaurd, or maybe it’s being a Lannister--confidence gives him the appearance of being exactly where he needs to be, regardless of where he actually is.

Why is he walking _ back _ to the White Sword Tower just after dawn? People may wonder, but no one _ asks_. They are sheep, and he is a lion. Jaime doesn’t _ quite _ ascribe to his father’s advice, but it makes a fine shield.

Spending his nights with Brienne is the best secret he’s even been part of. It’s breaking an oath, technically, but it’s definitely a better oath to break than killing the king he swore to protect (even if it was the _ right _ course of action), and much, _ much _ better than fucking his sister and putting three children in danger. 

When the Seven weigh his sins, he hopes Brienne is the least of them.

And it’s selfish, undeniably so, but when Brienne looks at him with her clear, steady gaze, Jaime starts to believe he’s the man she sees, and _ that _ is worth breaking an oath for. The privilege of waking up next to her, of being in her bed, is worth having to leave at dawn because she _ wants _ him there. He knows her well enough to read her expression when he leaves--a wistulfness, like she wishes he could stay.

That wish is enough to sustain Jaime for a long while. 

Sometimes, he thinks to ask Brienne how the secret weighs on her, but he can’t quite get the words out. He’s afraid of her answer, that it will disrupt the fragile routine between them. He doesn’t want to hear her say ”I can’t do this anymore.”

When Podrick first becomes a feature of their morning sparring sessions, Jaime finds the boy irrationally irritating.

“Is my left-handed swordsmanship so poor that you’re pawning me off on a page?”

Brienne glares at him, “Not everything revolves around _ you_. Podrick needs extra help, and there are only so many hours in a day.”

The lad is objectively terrible, and if Jaime were his instructor, he would let the inevitable happen--Podrick would barely make it through the first year and then vanish off the roster. 

That’s probably why he _ isn’t _ an instructor. 

What he finds the most bothersome is that Podrick becomes a wide-eyed voyeur to Jaime practicing with Brienne. The boy perches on a crate and tracks them like a hunting hawk as they move across the training yard. He’s in awe of Brienne, and Jaime won’t begrudge the boy that, not when he agrees wholeheartedly. It’s not Podrick watching that bothers him; he’s been using his left hand for nearly ten months, and finally feels _ some _ sense of his former skill returning to him. 

It’s that sparring with Brienne is akin to foreplay, and Podrick’s presence dampens that mood considerably. She wears the same fierce expression with a sword in her hand as when she pins him against a wall, and even though Jaime wouldn’t _ dare _ kiss her here, he’s drunk on the feeling that look creates in him. 

Brienne is committed to helping Podrick improve, though, and after a few mornings of watching them, Jaime learns to appreciate this aspect of her. She corrects his forms, more gently than Jaime would be able to manage. 

“You mean to make him your squire?” Jaime guesses one morning when Podrick is cleaning up.

“Is it obvious?”

“To me.”

“I do mean to, provided he makes it. He _ is _ getting better.”

“With your guidance, he is.” 

After that, watching Brienne with Podrick overwhelms Jaime with sentiment. She pours into Podrick the same effort, and faith, she’d found him worthy of. He imagines her teaching Tommen to wield a sword. Then, he wonders what Brienne would be like with a child of her own. When he imagines that, the child, whether a boy _ or _ a girl, has golden curls, but Brienne’s blue eyes.

* * *

Podrick’s ankles peek out from the top of his boots, and the sleeves of his shirts are frayed. She knows the other pages send ravens to their families, asking for things--new clothes, better boots, more than the standard leather armor. Training unifies them in many ways, but there’s no denying that Podrick looks the shabbiest amongst them. 

He’s growing, too; by spring, Podrick will be bursting out of the clothes that are just slightly too small, now. Breinne is probably overstepping, but the boy really has _ no one _ to look after him, so she does the only thing she can think of, and goes to speak to Tyrion.

It’s a bit of a scavenger hunt to find him, Brienne starts with the rooms Tyrion usually occupies, and ends up in one of Petyr Baelish’s brothels. Brienne should have just sent a fucking courier, but by the time she left the Red Keep, it seemed foolish not to follow through. She barged through the door without really considering where she was. 

She regrets the choice immediately; the whole room smells like they’re trying to cover up the smell of sex with pungent incense, and smoke hangs in the air, giving everything a hazy quality. The situation is made worse when Littlefinger greets her.

“Ah, Lady Brienne,” Baelish’s smirk is as oily as his voice, “I wouldn’t expect to meet _ you _here.”

“It’s _ ser_.” The space sours her mood, so Brienne corrects him, “And I’ve word that Lord Tyrion is here. I’m looking for him.”

His smirk widens, “He _ is _ here, but I’ll give you fair warning--I don’t know the state you’ll find him in, _ ser_. He enjoys my inventory.”

“I need to speak with him, regardless.” 

“Follow me.”

Brienne does, and tries not to look anywhere but straight ahead, and not into any of the rooms they pass. When they _ do _reach Tyrion, he’s perched on a throne of cushions, wine in hand, a nearly naked woman on either side of him.

“Ser Brienne!” Tyrion calls out, “not the place I’d expect to see a lady enter. Then again, you _ are _a knight, so maybe new terms apply.”

“A _ knight_?” One of the women practically slides over to her, “A _ lady _knight; I’ve heard of you.”

“You...have?” The woman’s dress is little more than transparent gauze and hides nothing; Brienne tries to look above her head, which isn’t too hard. 

“Of _ course_, ser. You’re the first, so everyone is curious.”

She can only reply, “Um?”

“Well,” the woman giggles, and touches Brienne’s arm, “I like knights, should you be interested.”

Tyrion laughs, and the woman slides away back into one of the many shadowy corners. “You’ve an admirer; I won’t tell my brother.”

“She’s _ paid _ to,” Brienne answers, “And why would Jaime--”

Only she _ knows _ why, and Tyrion clearly does, too.

“He asked me for some brotherly advice. Not that I was concerned about the potential for success.”

“It’s--”

“You’re welcome,” Tyrion answers, grinning, “Well, I assume you didn’t come here for the services.”

“Podrick Payne.”

“Ah, Podrick?” Tyrion answers, “The boy is a _ bit _young for--”

“Were you planning on telling me that you’re his patron?”

“I wasn’t, actually. I didn’t think being connected to Lannister gold would serve the boy well.” Tyrion laughs. “Although, you’ve fared surprisingly well after prolonged contact with our family.”

“I’m...resilient.”

“King’s Landing will engender that, or it will crush you.” One of the women whispers something into Tyrion’s ear. “Has the boy taken a liking to you?”

“I don’t know.” Podrick is polite, but so, so quiet. He was respectful towards her, but it’s hard to say if he _ liked _ her.

“He’s so quiet; I made him show me his tongue to prove being mute wasn’t some House Payne family curse.”

“He needs clothes, and boots.” She wants to get to the purpose of her visit; it feels like everyone is staring at her, and sweat is running down her back. “He’ll look like a street urchin before summer.”

And Podrick won’t _ ask_, which Brienne understands. She’d worn clothes poorly mended by her own hand rather than writing home, and she _ had _ someone to write to. The boy can barely string two sentences together, let alone ask Tyrion for money.

“My meager portion of the Lannister coffers are open to you.”

A couple afternoons later, Brienne takes Podrick to the tailor Tyrion suggested. He’s silent most of the walk there, answering her questions in as few words as possible. Brienne doesn’t mind the silence; when she’s around Jaime, there’s usually so little of it that walking with Podrick is a reprieve.

The shop is much fancier than one Brienne would enter on her own; Tyrion _ wouldn’t _ suggest something reasonably priced. The neighborhood is affluent, and Podrick looks more uncomfortable the closer they get. Brienne feels out of place, too, but she’s gotten better at hiding it. 

“Ser, this is too much,” Podrick whispers up to her outside the door.

“Lord Tyrion doesn’t understand where reasonable people procure clothes,” she replies. 

Podrick answers her with a shy smile, “It enough that Lord Tyrion pays my room and board. I can’t accept--”

Brienne puts a hand on his shoulder, “The Lannisters have more money than sense. Tyrion spends more on _ wine _than an entire new wardrobe for you.” 

“But--”

Another patron, dressed in ridiculous opulence, needs entry to the shop, so Brienne pulls Podrick to the side. “Do you know how I came to be Ser Jaime’s squire?”

Podrick looks to the left and the right, anywhere to avoid meeting Brienne’s eyes. “I--the other pages talk about it; they say it was to make you give up.”

“It was.”

“But you didn’t.”

Brienne nods, “Strength means accepting help when it’s needed. Ser Jaime got me squire’s quarters in the White Sword Tower when people kept damaging my belongings. I didn’t want to take it because I felt ashamed.” Podrick doesn’t need to know the details. “You can’t be a knight if your boots don’t fit.”

“Yes, ser.”

Podrick looks uncomfortable while the tailor takes his measurements; almost as uncomfortable as Brienne feels with no money to pay for the clothes. She sits there, watching Lannister gold and influence at work. The tailor knows there’s no ceiling on price. Podrick would look like a king if not for the fact Brienne keeps pointing out that everything needs to be _ practical. _

A week’s worth of clothes, a cloak; no, a page_ doesn’t _need anything lined in silk.

“Does the lady need anything?”

“It’s _ ser_!” Podrick chimes in, whispering a quiet _ ouch _ afterwards from being stabbed with a pin.

Brienne manages not to smile.

* * *

“Are you _ actually _ planning to go through with this?”

Jaime comes to Cersei in her chambers, a set of rooms he hasn’t set foot in since the day he returned from Tarth. He nearly leaves the golden hand off, a bid to inflict discomfort on her, but the uncovered stump feels vulnerable, so he leaves it on.

“Perhaps,” she answers.

Cersei looks radiant, a fact Jaime has accepted that he will notice for the rest of his life. She also looks unhappy, her mouth set in a firm line, and her eyes wary. Jaime pities her, then, and attributes it to Brienne’s good influence.

“I’ve heard a rumor about your plot.” Dancing around Cersei will not be to his benefit. 

She raises one golden eyebrow, “Have you now? From whom?”

_ A tiny she-wolf who plays in the sewers_.

“Someone I trust.”

“There are people like that?” She laughs, “If so, brother, you’re a fool.” 

_ There’s _ the Tywin Lannister in her--she's ever skeptical, and it poisons everything around her. 

“Placing faith in those who earned it isn’t foolish.” Cersei _ was _ the epicenter of his world, and now, he moves outward from her like ripples on a pond. The further he gets, the more clearly he sees her patterns.

“Well, that rumor can be added to the mill of the others,” she turns from him, “If such a plan exists, it’s not mine; I heeded your warnings.”

Jaime is stunned into silence for a few seconds. “Really?”

“Because you are the stupidest of us?” she replies--insulting him _ would _ be the only time she praises Tyrion, even indirectly. “It would be rash, to kill Jon Arryn outright.”

Cersei sounds fucking sensible. Not kind, _ never _ kind, but logical. 

“If _ anyone _ else finds out that the Hand of the King was looking for Robert’s bastards and then died under mysterious circumstances, _ everyone _ will look at the Lannisters.”

Cersei shrugs, and her hair moves against the red of her dress, “Aren’t we _ meant _ to be looked at, though?”

“I don’t want my children harmed.” Jaime tires of the game in her words, the subtle cuts and undertones.

“Ah, how you claim them _ now_.”

A wave of anger nearly overtake him, “They’re _ Baratheons. _ I can never claim them, but I _ can _ protect them.”

How foolish he’d been for letting Lannister hubris blind him to the reality he was putting his children in. Forget the fact that Cersei gets to hear Tommen and Myrcella call her _ mother_, and he will always, _ always _ be _ uncle. _ To claim them is a selfish desire.

“Better by you than to be sired by Robert, who was always too drunk to notice I never let him fuck me.”

Jaime hated to think of Cersei with Robert; it was possessiveness, but he also wished better for her than a drunken fool. So, he gave her himself, to make up for it, thinking it was _ enough_. He lacks the stamina to argue; she will never relent on her viewpoint. Cersei would weaponize all three of them, even though she loved them. She had already done so to Joffrey.

“It’s not exactly the best kept secret,” Jaime replies, “The smallfolk speculate about it every other day. Someone will pick up the trail if Jon Arryn dies, and it will all unravel.”

Cersei would _ never _ deign to concern herself with the opinions of those beneath her. _ Sheep_, she would say. _And we are lions_.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“They don't deserve Robert's wrath, in whatever shape that would take,” Jaime answers. "For now, we keep the person closest to the secret alive."

* * *

Jaime drags Brienne to the beach, near where he trained with Bronn. It’s nearly evening, and the wind whips through her hair, but it’s not _ nearly _ as cold as it would be on Tarth in this season. The Red Keep looms behind them, and looking at it from the water reminds her of Evenfall, although the architecture is not similar at all.

“I wanted to ensure we weren’t overheard,” Jaime says, voice low.

“And we had to come all the way down here for that?” She sounds cross, and hopes Jaime doesn’t notice.

“It’s the Red Keep--someone is always listening.”

“You don’t seem to think that when you steal into my room at night.”

Brienne is amazed by her ability to even make that joke; two months ago, that vein of humor would have been completely beyond her. She still blushes, but when Jaime laughs, he looks so boyish she decides the embarrassment is worth it. The sea breeze keeps making Brienne’s hair get in her mouth, but somehow, Jaime’s golden locks are even more radiant in the fading, orange light, and he looks pleasant tousled in the wind.

“Are you giving me untoward glances, ser?”

Brienne sputters, “N-no! I--”

“Calm down, wench; what makes you think I’d mind?”

Brienne scowls and looks out at the water; the salty air is nice, even if the company is too handsome and likes to tease her. Jaime falls silent and takes her hand.

“I talked to Cersei today.”

“And?”

“She denies any involvement in _ whatever _Arya overheard.”

“You believe her?” Brienne will trust Jaime’s judgment on matters of Cersei.

Jaime nods, “She wasn’t lying, and I _ think _ I convinced her to not actively work against us. It’s not to her-- _ our _benefit if the Hand is killed. Any investigation into his death will surely uncover the fact that he’s been looking for Robert’s bastards.”

She nods, throat suddenly tight. “The Lannisters will be the easiest culprit, a perfect scapegoat.”

“I don’t care one whit about Jon Arryn’s life.” Jaime looks at her, and the windswept, boyishness is completely gone from his features. He looks like the Kingslayer.

When they met, she would have judged him dishonorable for that statement; she’d changed, too.

“You don’t have to care for his life,” Brienne answers, “Only for the good he does the realm.”

“I din’t kill Aerys for the Seven Kingdoms to be ruined by a drunken whoremonger; right now, the Hand _ is _ the kingdom.” He looks away from her, “And Joffrey would be no better.”

“Not from what I’ve heard.”

“I want his safety, though, as much as Tommen and Myrcella.”

_ You’re a better father than most_, she wants to say, but Jaime won’t believe her, so she keeps it to herself. So many children are orphaned or abandoned, like Podrick. To have anyone looking out for them is a blessing. Brienne takes his face between her hands, and when Jaime looks up at her, the hardness in his eyes is all but gone. 

“Whatever aid I can provide, it’s yours.” 

* * *

“I _ think _ the Small Council is missing out by not incorporating _ this _sort of thing into their meetings.”

Brienne sighs, and it comes out somewhere between breathy and irritated, which is an accurate representation of her mood. “It was a fool’s errand to discuss this with you now.”

No one was listening, here, which is why she thought to bring it up.

“No, I’m listening,” Jaime sounds admonished when he whispers into her ear. “This is by _ far _the most engaging strategy meeting I’ve ever been a part of.” Jaime tickles his fingers along her side, and he really doesn’t seem to mind the almost complete lack of feminine curve. Brienne never thought about if she was ticklish, but, then again, no one ever touched her to find out.

“We should tell someone,” Brienne repeats, immediately distracted, “We’re both _ shit _ at this--it’s been two weeks and we know nothing more than rumors.”

Jaime furrows his brow, and there’s enough moonlight through her window to see it. “We should tell Jon Arryn, probably, that his life is in danger. Even if we don’t know _ who_, he can try and guard against it.”

“Are you volunteering?”

He shakes his head, “I was retained on the Kingsguard by his suggestion, but I don’t think me striding into the Tower of the Hand and saying that would be convincing.”

“Well, _ I’ve _ never actually met him. How would _ you _ feel if a stranger came to you and said there was a plot on your life?”

Kissing her is Jaime’s answer to that question, along with moving his hand to the small of her back to pull them flush against one another. Her mind _ still _ isn’t used to this--the idea that Jaime wants to touch her, repeatedly, and it wasn’t some odd, one time fluke. Her body reacts quickly enough, and seems perfectly comfortable with the idea. Jaime kisses her jaw and down her neck, and she doesn’t care whether the scratch of his beard, or the wet heat of his mouth, will leave a mark.

“You’re a _ distraction_.”

“It’s punishment for having this conversation _ now_.” Brienne can’t be certain what _ she _ looks like, but it certainly isn’t better than _ he _ looks, hair pleasantly mussed against her pillow. Then, her heart’s racing again. _ Damn him_, she thinks, _ for looking like _ that _ in the middle of the night_.

“I can’t believe I’m uttering these words, but we should tell Ned Stark.”

Brienne presses a hand to Jaime’s forehead, “Are you _ ill_?”

“He’s closest to the Hand, aside from Robert, who you should absolutely _ not _ tell.”

* * *

Ned Stark is easy enough to find--all Brienne has to do in find Arya, and surely Lord Stark will be trailing behind her. 

“He’s overprotective,” Jaime whispers to her.

“Wouldn’t _ you _ be? The world isn’t kind to young girls.”

He thinks of Ellia, and Rhaenys, and even Cersei; Brienne is right. Jaime tries to imagine leaving a daughter in King’s Landing, but there’s only Myrcella, and he doesn’t have the perspective to form an opinion.

“Lord Stark,” Brienne calls out, bowing stiffly when Ned turns around. Jaime marvels, as usual, at her continued formality. Would she call him Ser Jaime as he fucked her if he hadn’t asked her to drop the _ ser _ months and months ago? 

Brienne doesn’t seem to mind being called _ ser _ herself.

“You can call me Ned, you know,” he answers. “In the North, we don’t stand on ceremony like you Southerners do.”

Brienne looks like Ned asked her to call him _ sweetling_, and Jaime tries to remember they are here for a serious reason. He should have let her come alone, maybe.

Ned looks and his direction and says, “Kingslayer.”

Fuck, he _ never _ wants to hear that name again.

“Lord...Ned,” Brienne says in compromise. She’s delightfully awkward, and _ gods_, he loves her for it; it completely makes up for the Kingslayer bit. “We’ve something concerning to share with you...privately.”

Could the wench have phrased it more ominously? The conversation _ is _serious, though, for all Jaime’s cavalier attitude. 

“Is it about Arya?” Ned guesses.

“It’s not _ technically _ about your little she-wolf, no.”

Ned laughs at the nickname as he leads him into his solar. He _ doesn’t _ offer them wine, which is fine because it’s barely midday, but Jaime has spent too much time with his siblings, so he finds it odd.

“Are we definitely alone?” Brienne asks.

“As alone as one can hope in the Red Keep. Speak softly, regardless.”

Brienne leans her head close to Ned’s, “We’ve heard a rumor about a plot to kill the Hand of the King.”

Ned’s eyes widen, and he reaches for the sword at his hip--a reflex Jaime knows well. Although, he’s re-learned it strangely, now, wearing his sword on his right side. “Tell me more of this rumor. What was said?”

Her honesty makes Brienne falter, and she glances at Jaime just long enough for Ned to notice. Jaime can see the battle waging in her mind--does she reveal that Arya heard the rumor? 

“Arya heard it, somewhere in one of the passages under the Keep.” A secret a child wants kept shouldn’t factor into this.

Ned actually _ smiles_, but Jaime can’t say that he looks terribly happy. “And she told...?”

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime answers, “not me.”

“Arya swore me not to tell you,” Brienne looks guilty, “she’s afraid you’ll send her home.”

Ned looks from Brienne, then back to Jaime. Smug, self-righteous Eddard Stark is about to proclaim something. “Are you _ sure _ this isn’t a Lannister plot?”

“_ Why _ would I be here telling you about it?” Jaime is suddenly overcome with a fit of rage. How _ dare _ fucking Ned Stark come down from the fridgid north and transport him back to age seventeen? He’s sitting on that uncomfortable fucking throne again, _ knowing _ no one would care about his justification.

“If not you, then your sister or your father could be behind it. It wouldn’t be the first Lannister scheme to disrupt the throne.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Jaime holds up both hands, the flesh and the golden, and waves them, “I’m not my father _ or _my sister.”

“But you _ are _ the Kingslayer.”

_ Fuck that name, and fuck anyone who utters it. _

“When you walked into the Red Keep after my father sacked the city, what did you find?”

Ned looks taken aback, and Brienne pivots her head between the two of them.

“I saw you, sitting on the Iron Throne, next to the Mad King’s cooling corpse.”

“Exactly!” Jaime all but yells, “I didn’t run, or scheme; I fucking _ waited_, even though I knew from the moment you entered what it meant for me.”

“And what was that, exactly?’ Ned looks genuinely curious.

“A decade-and-a-half of being maligned for doing something that _ everyone _ benefited from.” 

_ Hated for my greatest deed_. 

“Jaime,” Brienne speaks, and he looks to her. 

_ It’s her fault that I care_. It’s her influence that has him attempting to explain himself to Ned fucking Stark fifteen years after the deed. Brienne makes him want people to look past Lannister and Kingslayer, and see _ Jaime_. Of course, he’s done nothing but lean into their expectations, confirm their assessment of his arrogance and flippancy.

If there was a moment to make Ned Stark _ see_, if it was even fucking possible, it was long past. 

“I’ll accept that you’re not aligned with your sister or your father, if they even have any part in this scheme,” Ned replies. 

Jaime nods, but he’s not really looking at, or thinking about, Ned anymore--just Brienne, and the worried crease between her brows. He should resent her, for uncovering this walled-off part of him.

“Don’t tell the Hand, yet, but keep an eye on him. If you have men _ you _ trust, use them. We told you and not Ser Barristan for a reason.” A bunch of Kingsguard swarming around Jon Arryn would be _ no _ help; they might as well sound an alarm and get a town crier to scream about it in the streets.

Jaime strides out the door of the solar, half-hearing Brienne’s overly-formal farewell. When they’re back outside, he wants to put as much distance between himself and Ned Stark as possible. Even behind, Brienne quickly outpaces him, and halts his progress down the hall.

“Are you alright?”

“That was unbecoming of me.”

“It was truthful.” That means _ good_, to her; Jaime just isn’t sure he agrees.

“It’s not even _ really _ about him; it’s about what he represents.”

Brienne smiles, “He’s an honorable man, but a bit blinded by what he sees as right or wrong.”

“If _ he’d _ been the one to slit Aerys’s throat, it would have been fine. The _ hypocrisy_.”

“Just think of how much his opinion of you can improve.”

The joke should sting, but Jaime laughs until he has to lean against the wall and catch his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted in a few days! As always, thank you for all the reviews and kudos. ❤️


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You gave me some advice soon after I returned from Tarth,” Jaime says once he’s seated._
> 
> _“When I told you to throw yourself into Ser Brienne’s strong, capable arms?”_
> 
> I love my brother, _Jaime repeats to himself,_ I don’t want to toss him from the balcony into the sea. _“No,” he answers, “when you told me to take Casterly Rock.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the last third of this, now! Thank you, as always, for all the kind reviews and kudos.
> 
> Also, I remembered halfway through re-reading this chapter that Robin Arryn is named Robert Arryn in the books. He's not important beyond the scene he's in, and I am too lazy to change it.

"Be honest, we're _ still _shit at this." 

Brienne shoots him a stubborn glare. "We told Lord Ned, who’s the best person to keep Lord Arryn safe until we figure this out."

_ Lord Ned _ is _ still _ making Jaime laugh, days later. Brienne won't appreciate it, so he holds his tongue--maybe another skill he picked up from her. "If a new Master of Whispers is needed, I'm sure they will solicit one of us for the position."

"We've made a living of swords; what were your expectations for subterfuge?" 

“I don’t trust _ anyone_,” Jaime answers, “except you.”

Brienne smiles at him, and Jaime feels a profound sense of having _ earned _it. “I trust Ned Stark.”

“I don’t, but I _ do _ trust that our goals align, for now.” 

The _ rest_, though, is the real issue. He’s been losing sleep over what to do _ after _ they find the person behind the assassination plot. The Hand is still, if Cersei is to be believed, tracking down Baratheon bastards, which means he _ knows_, or at least suspects.

“And...after?”

“I...don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Will _ Lord Ned _ figure out the _ rest_? Will the Hand _ tell _him once he is sure? Will he tell King Robert? There’s too many variables. If only Cersei had been right about the easiest course of action being killing him.”

“Jaime, you don’t mean--”

“I _ do_, though,” Jaime places the length of his room, frustrated. He’d kiss Brienne as an outlet for it if she wasn’t staring at him like he’d regressed to some prior incarnation of himself; the smile from before is long gone. “If that was a simple, guaranteed result, and not the tangled shit it is, I’d do it.”

“You love them,” Brienne looks up at him from her seat at his desk, “of course you want to protect them.”

“And you don’t think I’d take a life to further that end?’

“Not one innocent of wrongdoing.”

He wouldn’t, or maybe he would. Putting the problem to the sword would be _ satisfying_. It’s what Tywin Lannister would do. It’s what Cersei would _ try _ to do. Jaime can hear his father in his head, _ Do your duty. _ His duty to what, though? The white cloak? His family? Casterly Rock? Brienne?

Jaime sighs and paces the room again.

“Let’s keep looking, ser.”

* * *

Jaime hatches a plan; it’s equal parts ridiculous and terrifying, and it relies on letting Tywin Lannister win a victory he has wanted for a long, long, time. He bounces the idea around in his mind for _ days _ before he decides to go and talk to his brother.

Tyrion is perched in his usual chair; Jaime likes the rooms his brother stays in when he visits King’s Landing--they overlook the city, and the water, and they’re far enough away that they can have a fucking conversation without ears pressed to all the cracks in the walls. 

“You gave me some advice soon after I returned from Tarth,” Jaime says once he’s seated.

“When I told you to throw yourself into Ser Brienne’s strong, capable arms?”

_ I love my brother_, Jaime repeats to himself, _ I don’t want to toss him from the balcony into the sea_. “No,” he answers, “when you told me to take Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion is pouring wine, and stares at Jaime in shock for long enough that he almost overflows the cup. “You mean to leave the Kingsguard?”

Jaime emits a frustrated groan, “You _ told _ me to! Why do you sound so affronted?”

“I’m not affronted; I’m shocked,” Tyrion says, “I stand by the quality of my advice, but I never considered that you would actually heed it.”

“What will Father say?”

“He might shit himself from shock, and _ please _let me be in the room when you tell him.”

The smile Jaime gives Tyrion is rueful, “I will enjoy defying his expectations, although it’s a shame to give him what he wants. Strangely enough, the two go hand-in-hand in this case.”

"So, you mean to marry Ser Brienne?”

Tyrion is the first person to utter the words aloud--they exist, now, in the air between them, tangible and with consequence. “Yes, but I need to ask her.”

“It’s not very effective if the lady doesn’t know she’s to be wed. Although, I suppose you could ask her father for permission and go about it that way.”

Jaime can imagine Lord Selwyn Tarth, staring down at him for his great height, and saying “Brienne is the one you should be asking.”

“Her father would tell me to ask her myself.”

Tyrion chuckles, “To have raised Ser Brienne, I can imagine him saying that. Is he as tall as she is?”

“_Taller_. I scarcely thought he could be real.”

"You know, Lord Tarth should be pleased,” Tyrion takes a drink, “Casterly Rock is _ quite _ a dowry."

“A dowry--_what_?”

“Ser Brienne is honorable; she took your virtue, so she’ll be inclined to marry you to avoid dishonoring you. She’s probably already thinking of it.”

Tyrion utters that entire sentence with a completely straight face.

“That’s--” Jaime thinks again of the secret between them, and if it weighs on her, and the levity Tyrion created vanishes. “Being kept a secret,” Jaime continues after they fall silent for a moment, “it’s not fair; she deserves more than I can give her right now.”

With Cersei, the secret had been _ both _ theirs to keep, equally damaging on both sides. Brienne isn’t like that, though; she has done nothing dishonorable other than associate with him. She’s broken no oaths.

“And _ you _ don’t deserve more?”

Jaime shakes his head, “I’m not sure I deserve what I have.”

"If you _ think _you deserve what you have, then you probably don't. Everything is just random circumstance. We were born Lannisters by fucking chance."

"And sometimes I'm not sure that's luck or a curse."

Tyrion raises his glass, "We have power and burden in equal measure."

Jaime's plan involves wielding both his power _ and _ their father's, so he tells Tyrion the story in its entirety. 

"So," Tyrion lowers his voice, "the Hand _ knows_, and quietly ending his life is _ not _ the plan."

"Do you not think we'll immediately be blamed, and the whole thing unearthed?"

"No, I think that is _ exactly _ what will happen," Tyrion agrees. "So, you want to ask the Hand, nicely, to keep a secret that undermines the legitimacy of Robert's heirs to the Iron Throne."

If Tywin, or Cersei, had said that exact phrase, it would be laced with mocking at the short-sightedness of the plan. Tyrion, however, sounds mildly impressed at the gall of it.

"I'll take Tommen to Casterly Rock."

"And Myrcella?"

"She'll be our father's pawn, and Robert will never notice. He'll make some horrid match for her, and when the secret is discovered…"

"You were always so sure it wouldn't be." There might be some _ slight _ judgement in Tyrion's tone, but Jaime deserves it.

"I maintain Robert will _ never _ figure it out on his own, but Lord Arryn is much smarter, which is why the Seven Kingdoms aren't in shambles."

"I don't know what Robert will do when he finds out."

Tyrion shrugs, a mock veneer of flippancy, "Take your head, banish you. You'd do better to be far away when _ that _ happens."

Jaime nods, "Cersei won't turn tail and leave in the night; she thinks herself untouchable."

"Hubris," Tyrion chuckles, "the death knell of a Lannister. She also won't give up Joffrey. If you can convince Robert sending Tommen and Myrcella away would benefit him, though."

Solving two-thirds of a problem was better than solving none of it. "She will hate every scrap of this, even if it's for the benefit of her children." 

Where would Cersei go, if she needed to leave the capital quickly? The only place is Casterly Rock, and Jaime shudders at the thought of having her there.

"Send Myrcella to Dorne," Tyrion suggests, "Betroth her to one of Doran Martell’s sons. That alliance has suffered since Robert's Rebellion."

"Even as a Lannister bastard," Jaime thinks aloud, "_ should _ it be discovered, the match would build a bridge. Every second child birthed in Dorne is a bastard."

A headache creeps up behind his eyes, and Jaime pinches the bridge of his nose. He misses the brash confidence that motivated his actions for so many years. It was certainly less stressful.

"And what will you tell Brienne?"

"The whole plan, and hope she doesn't think me using her." The worst part is Brienne would probably agree just to help his children, if it really is the best course of action. 

"Then, lucky you, you get to talk to our father."

* * *

"I want to talk to Lady Lysa," Brienne tells Lord Ned next time he watches Arya's morning lessons. He intended to return to the North, but delayed his departure until they discerned the culprit. Sansa seemed happier about it than Arya did.

"Do you have reason to suspect her?" 

"Nothing definite, but Lord Arryn is her husband, so perhaps she knows something."

He's watching Arya again, probably noticing that she's learning restraint instead of slashing wildly. "I've not seen Lady Lysa in many years, but I heard from Catelyn that she is _ unwell_."

"Unwell?" It's surprising that he had yet to call upon her, being married to Lady Lysa's sister.

“Young Robin is her only surviving child. Catelyn told me the loss of her children has left her fragile and distrustful."

Those are two adjectives that _ might _ lead a person to a desperate action. "Now, I _ definitely _want to meet her. Can you tell me anything else?" 

"I wed Catelyn in a joint ceremony with Lady Lysa and Jon. He's a good man, but I don't believe there is any love between them."

“Most high born marriages lack love.” Most were arranged, like Cersei and Robert, or her own mother and father. Love can be fostered between two people with effort, and even the most passionate love can’t always end in happiness.

“I didn’t love Cat when we wed,” Lord Stark smiles, “Over time, though. Lysa was not so fortunate.”

Is she fortunate, then? Jaime can’t wed her, not that she even thinks he’d wish to. To experience the feeling, even for a time, is worth it. Jaime deserves more, but would he want it with _ her_, if it was possible? 

“I’d like to visit Lady Lysa,” Brienne pulls her mind back to the task at hand.

“Take Arya, be her escort. It’s not strange to visit an aunt.”

* * *

Brienne tells Arya the plan, in hushed tones after lessons the next day. There’s no need for a ruse--Arya was the origin of the of their entire investigation in the first place.

“Will you assist me?

Arya grins, “I can search her chambers while you distract her.”

Brienne stifles a comment; Arya doesn’t need encouraged. “_ No_. I’ll not have you caught spying and thieving. Lord Ned only agreed to a visit.”

“You can just call Father ‘Ned,’ she rolls her eyes, “And that’s _ far _ less interesting.”

“Besides, snooping is dishonorable.”

“...But it’s a good way to find out information people don’t want you to have.”

Arya Stark might make a better spy than a knight. 

“No; I can’t put risk putting you in any danger. Can you play the part of wanting to call on your aunt?”

“Can I fight you using Needle?” Arya barters, “I know you practice with Pod in the mornings.”

“...Fine.”

Brienne decides not to tell Jaime about the visit--he seemed uneasy the past few days, but he redirects the conversation, or kisses her, everytime she asks if something is bothering him. She gets irritated with herself, then, because she isn’t skilled at conversation, and she can’t always track Jaime’s moods, or their points of origin. He’s worried about his children, and probably Cersei, and a dozen other things she can’t fix for him.

If he’d _ talk _ to her more, though.

Then again, she’s reticent, too.

Lady Lysa lives in the Tower of the Hand, and Brienne and Arya wind their way through the Red Keep two afternoons later. The Tower has guards posted, which Brienne expected, especially after the conversation with Lord Stark. 

“I’m Arya Stark, and I’m here to visit my Aunt Lysa.”

_ Gods, if I had an ounce of her boldness_. 

“And I’m Brienne of Tarth; Lord Stark asked me to escort Lady Arya.” Brienne can see Arya’s nose wrinkle at _ lady_, but she doesn’t say anything. When she first arrived here, she definitely would’ve commented at that.

Arya misliked being called a lady, even though she _ was _ one; meanwhile, Brienne didn’t mind it in theory, but felt so ill-suited to the title that she bristled, too. It was one of the only things she had in common with the girl, even if their reasons differed.

That, and swords; they definitely had swords in common.

The man at Lysa’s door looks like someone Brienne would want to punch in a tavern for groping a bar wench. _ Why is he here? Why not a Kingsgaurd? _ He smells like old liquor and sweat; Arya looks actively disgusted, which is the face Brienne _ wants _ to make.

“Oh, you’re that ‘Kingslayer’s Whore’, right?”

Shame floods Brienne at his words--the man is chuckling to himself like he’s said something clever, not just repeat some outdated scornful insult. She remembers the words, scrawled across her door, when her relationship with Jaime was filled with trepidation and unspoken things. _ Never_, Jaime said to her, with such vehemence. 

Arya doesn’t know the story behind the name, but she glares at the man just the same. “Are you a knight?”

“What the fuck does that matter?” 

“Ser Brienne _ is_, so you should shut up.”

Brienne clamps a hand down on Arya’s shoulder, squeezing until the girl stops. “Let us pass, and I _ won’t _ tell Ser Barristan you’re being difficult.”

The man grunts, but steps aside. Who did he belong to? She couldn’t imagine someone like that in Lord Stark’s employ.

Lysa Arryn sits on a chaise, surrounded by a mountain of fabric. She looks older, much older than Brienne expected, and her heavy makeup only accentuates it. A child, who can only be Robin, sits at her side. The boy's head rests near her bosom; the child is small, but old enough to not be latched onto his mother like an infant.

She doesn't rise to greet them; she doesn't offer them wine or any of the other courtly courtesies that were ingrained in Brienne.

“Who are these people, Mother?” Robin looks up at his mother as he speaks.

“Family, Sweetrobin,” Lysa croons to the child, “We must welcome them.”

Robin scrunches his face in preparation for a tantrum, “They look _ dull_; make them leave.”

"My sweet niece," she holds out a hand to Arya, who glances at Brienne with a wary expression. 

Brienne urges her forward with a hand on her back. When Arya is close, Lysa cups the back her head and pulls her close. 

"There's no Tully in you," Lysa sounds disdainful as she inspects Arya. "You're _ all _Northern."

"Sansa looks like Mother, " Arya answers, stepping out of Lysa's reach. "I'm a Stark."

Lysa's lips turn downward, "That you are, girl. Catelyn was always more beautiful, more doted upon. By our father, by our uncle, by Petyr."

“Mother, make Uncle Petyr bring me more toys--”

Arya doesn't know how to answer, and Brienne certainly doesn't either. 

"You could have been _ my _ child," Lysa continues, sounding more like she's speaking to herself than them, "If I hadn't been wed to that ancient man."

"Lady Lysa--"

Lysa clutches Robin more tightly. "Speak quietly, there are eyes and ears everywhere."

“Everyone here’s a spy,” Robin adds.

Arya steps closer again, "My mother speaks of you often, Aunt Lysa, so I wanted to meet you."

"And what does Cat say of me, child?" 

"She'd talk about when you were children at Riverrun."

"I'm sure she did. Did she mention that I was always jealous of her beauty?"

"N-no."

"Although," she looks at Brienne, gaze unsteady, "_ you _ should know how I feel. The world isn't kind to women like us. Ugly women, women who can't give their lord husband's sons that aren't sickly."

Well, Lady Lysa isn't wrong.

"You've a sword, though. Tell me, does it give you purpose? Does it make you less of a woman?"

"Protecting people is purpose," Brienne answers, "the sword is a tool to that end."

Lysa laughs, "A pointless venture in this den of snakes. I will do anything, though, to protect my son."

_ She sounds like Cersei_.

"I don't like her," Arya says when they are halfway back across the Keep. "She made me uncomfortable."

"Lady Lysa isn't well," Brienne tries to he gracious, "I didn't enjoy her company, either."

"She's_ nothing _ like Mother." Then, Arya whispers, "Do you think it's her?" 

"Mayhaps."

Later, Brienne tries to suss out the meaning behind Lysa Arryn’s words as she methodically cleans and oils her blade and armor. The actions are rote, which leaves her mind plenty of time to wander. Lady Lysa’s behavior was _ definitely _ erratic. 

When Brienne tells Jaime the entire encounter, he says, “She’s right to be wary in King’s Landing, and does anyone _ actually _ like this place?”

“Someone _ must_.”

“A fool, or someone seeking to capitalize on others’ misfortune.”

“Lord Ned told me their marriage is a loveless one.”

“A unhappy marriage _ is _ enough to plot murder.” Jaime’s tone belies experience with a person who wants to plot the untimely demise of a spouse. “It begets the question: does she have the resources or knowledge to actually accomplish the feat?”

"I think she mentioned Petyr Baelish."

“I know that my brother frequents his brothels, and that he’s not to be underestimated. He’s not the Master of Whispers, but he has as many loyal people here as Lord Varys.”

“Should we attempt to talk with him?”

Jaime shakes his head, “No, I think we’d just reveal what little advantage we possess.”

* * *

Jaime whispers all sorts of things in the moonlight. He tells her he used to trade places with Cersei for entire _ days _ without anyone noticing. He tells her stories about Arthur Dayne. In turn, Brienne tells him of the death of her brother and her mother, and her still-born sisters. She tells him of Hyle Hunt and the bet.

“Is he still in King’s Landing?” Jaime asks when she’s done with the story.

“No.”

“Would you like me to track him down? It could be a good use of Lannister resources.”

Brienne shakes her head, “He apologized, and _ then _he asked me to marry him.”

“He _ what?! _”

“He only wanted Tarth because he’s a landless knight,” she answers. “Although, he said he’d let me keep my sword, which is more than anyone my father chose. It must have shamed him, too, all the times I beat him.”

“I assume you refused?”

“Absolutely.”

“There’s no shame in being bested by you.” Jaime understands it, objectively, but if the people Brienne supposedly shamed would just _ look _ at her, how could they be anything other than impressed? “Even...before, I was only ever proud of you.”

They’re sharing a pillow, and Jaime can almost _ feel _ her blush. “I _ rarely _beat you before,” she finds his wrist under the blanket, “And you’re the first to think that.”

“Perhaps the one thing I’m _ not _ a fool about.” Since they’re talking about poor betrothals, Jaime offers a story of his own, “My father tried to betroth me to Lysa Tully before I joined the Kingsguard.” 

Brienne laughs, “You and Lord Stark could have been family.”

“_Ugh_,” Jaime covers his face with his left hand. _ “ _We visited Riverrun when I was young, but all I wanted to do was talk with the Blackfish, and I ignored Lysa completely. ”

“I felt bad for her when I spoke to her with Arya---”

He covers her mouth this time, “In the morning.” Brienne scowls, but abides.. “I...asked Cersei to marry me, once, before I came to King’s Landing.”

“She said ‘no’?”

“She told me I was insane, and that we weren’t Targaryens.” 

“I’m--” Brienne starts; maybe all the talk of marriage has upset her. “I’m glad my father stopped trying to find a match for me.”

“Because of his horrid choices?”

“It’s not his fault I’m difficult to match. Who would wed a lady like _ me_?” she sounds dejected, and Jaime hates it. “I didn’t want _ any _ of his choices, or Hyle, but I’m his heir, and it's expected."

“I would,” Jaime blurts. He hadn’t meant to ask her like _ this._ Some overture wouldn’t suit her, but there had to be a more appropriate time.

“Don’t jest about that.”

Jaime is silent long enough that Brienne turns over to face the wall her bed is pushed against; she will use her body to barricade her heart. He’d gotten past that wall, long ago, and to be cast out beyond it once more hurts.

“It’s not a jest,” Jaime whispers back.

“An impossibility.”

“Why?”

Brienne sits up, glaring and pulling the blanket to her chest--another barrier; “Your oaths, Jaime. The Kingsguard isn’t like being a sellsword; you can’t just _ quit_.”

“There are ways. Wasn’t that my father’s goal in making you my squire?”

“So you’d give him the satisfaction of victory? Why _ now_?”

“You.”

“That’s a foolish reason,” she closes her eyes. “Please, speak no more of this.”

“I’ll speak until I’m _ done_, wench,” he retorts, sitting up, “You’ve no right to silence me.”

“I don’t have to listen, though.” 

_ Gods, she sounds so childish_.

“Go ahead, run out your door, then.”

Into the hallway, naked, Jaime _ doesn’t _ need to add.

_ And so do I. _

“Isn’t this _ enough_?” 

It’s not enough, not even _ close_. Doesn’t she know that? “I’ve lived half my life a secret,” Jaime’s angry, now; the tenor of his voice meant to command. “I tire of keeping one eye open while I sleep. Do you think I _ like _ leaving at dawn?”

“You deserve more than that,” she finally speaks.

“And you can’t give me that? Or you don’t want to?”

“I can’t,” she whispers.

“That’s how you see this, then?” His tone is the same--a challenge. “You like my cock well enough, but _ more _is a lot of ask for the Kingslayer.”

A quarter of an hour ago, they’d been laughing under her blanket and swapping stories; now, his voice has a cruel edge, one he never uses with her. Her armor is silence, while Jaime’s is cutting words. He shouldn’t lash out at her, not at the one true, _ good _ thing he’s ever had next to him.

Jaime’s angry and desperate when he kisses her, and it’s another type of lashing out, and she doesn’t deserve this. He grips her jaw with the fingers of his left hand, and moves his right up to do the same, dropping his arm when he realizes he can’t. Then, he’s even angrier. The kiss burns straight through him, tingling in his limbs; he feels like someone is clenching his heart in a tight fist. Brienne blindly searches for his fallen right arm again, fingers closing around the scar tissue. Jaime deflates, and when the fight leaves him, he pulls her forehead to rest against his.

The silence stretches, only their breathing to accompany their thoughts.

“I do love you,” she whispers.

The last vestiges of frustration leave him, and Jaime’s overcome by her admission; he felt it, from her, but she’s never actually said it aloud.

“If that’s true,” he says, barely audible, “then let me make good on it; another secret will drag me under.”

Tears _ do _ fill Brienne’s eyes, then, “You’ll have to take Casterly Rock.”

“You make it sound like a death sentence. I’ve cheated death more than once, and being the Lord of Casterly Rock isn’t death. Boring, tedious, but not death.”

“You don’t _ want _ it,” Brienne mumbles. 

“I don’t,” he admits, “but I want _ you_. And I want to protect my children, and that means leaving King's Landing. I will convince Father to let me take Tommen, and send Myrcella to Dorne. Cersei won't let go of Joffrey, but it's more than doing nothing."

"If I can help you protect them…"

It’s exactly what he thought she would say.

"If not you, then Father will choose a wife for me. I don't want to be a lord, but I didn’t want the white cloak, either; Cersei wanted it. I just wanted to swing my sword and have songs sung about me." He wipes away the tears on her cheeks with his left hand. "To have you, though, I could suffer Casterly Rock.”

“Your father...”

“...Will jump through as many hoops as needed to get me to fulfill the role he wishes me to play.”

“_Me_, though, the lady of Casterly Rock?” she protests, “I’m not fit for that.”

“You _ are _a lady,” Jaime presses his cheek against hers.

“I’m a knight. And I can’t be the lady wife a lord needs.”

“I only need Ser Brienne of Tarth. Anyone who doesn’t want you as you are doesn’t deserve you. No one will take your sword from your hand,” Jaime pushes her back to meet her eyes. “Granted, you don’t need _ me _ to tell you that. You’d gut the man who tried, including me.”

“I would.”

“Come, then,” Jaime is grinning, now. “Command my forces, train every peasant whelp from Lannisport who shows an interest to wield a sword, girls included. Spend every night pinning me to the bed in the lord’s chambers. I will do, broady, what my father wants, while filling it with details he will _ hate_.”

“_Jaime-- _”

“Are you going to object that people would mock us?”

“_Yes_.”

“They’re sheep, ser. _ Sheep_.” 

“Will you say that when your father thinks we married _ just _ to spite him? Or when your men won’t heed my orders because a woman uttered them?” 

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t want to be your spite.”

“The spite is extra,” Jaime embraces her and lets her keep the blanket between them, though it displeases him. “You don’t believe that I wouldn’t use you?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Run me through with your sword, then, if I do.”

“You’re...serious?”

“I can’t recall ever being this serious. What would Lord Selwyn think?”

“My father has given up hope for an heir, and he didn’t hate you.”

He chuckles, “That is a warmer reception than I need _ or _deserve.”

“I have...terms.”

The chuckle turns into an outright laugh, “I agree to _ all _ your terms; tell me them in detail tomorrow.” That’s _ not _ the kind of negotiating he wants to do right now; he also can’t think of anything he wouldn’t give her, any concession he wouldn’t make.

“You haven’t even _ heard _ them.”

“I don’t need to.”

“What if they’re horrid, or dishonorable?” 

They _ won’t _ be, and that’s why he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is just a whole lotta porn! Follow me on tumblr @ kurikaesu-haru


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “_No, but bedding and marrying aren't the same thing,” she answers, “Hyle told me all women are the same in the dark.” _
> 
> _Jaime scoffs in between kissing her collarbone, “And here I thought my proposal was poorly done. ‘I’ll wed you and suffer to fuck you in the dead of night with no lamp lit.’ What a gift.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as usual, for all the wonderful comments! 
> 
> Have some smut ahahahaha.

“Did you ever _ really _think this was just fucking?” 

Jaime tugs the blanket away from between them, brushing his fingers over her hand. She lets it pool at her waist and is glad that she has to remind herself, less and less, to let her guard down. 

“No, but bedding and marrying aren't the same thing,” she answers, “Hyle told me all women are the same in the dark.” 

Jaime scoffs in between kissing her collarbone, “And here I thought _ my _ proposal was poorly done. ‘I’ll wed you and suffer to fuck you in the dead of night with no lamp lit.’ What a _ gift_.”

“Hyle was honest; it was his idea, and he knew me as what I am.” Brienne accepted, long ago, that she should expect tolerance, if she was lucky; she was not a woman any man would go into a fervor over.

“I’m _ better_,” Jaime’s vehement now, and kisses his way down the slight swell of her breast, dragging his teeth over her nipple as though it will bolster his argument. “I’m glad you’ve refused so many fools.”

_ Desire _ \--an emotion she thought she wasn’t made for, and no amount of swords and armor can pry it from her now that she knows it. Jaime will kiss her until she’s a pool of nothing but want, and won’t leave her to guess what he finds so compelling about the parts of her that _ she _ mislikes. No, he’ll _ tell _her, with his lips pressed to the inside of her knee, or some other seemingly random point. 

He lights her lamp, a meager defense against the darkness of her room, but Brienne understands why he chooses to do so. If they're a secret, at least it's not under the complete cover of darkness. It's a boon, to watch him confidently stride back to her across the room.

Brienne's instinct is to grab the blanket and bury herself under it, but she resists. There’s nothing delicate about the way she blushes; it creeps down her neck and onto her broad shoulders. 

And yet, Jaime _ stares_.

“Lamp light only improves this, ser.”

"It does," she agrees.

"I don't think anyone appreciates me _ quite _ like you."

“You’re beautiful," she tells him. Jaime’s regard for her burns within her like a bonfire, and she wants to repay that, if she can, wants him to know what she can't say. It's hard, when her nature is such a stark contrast to Jaime's effusiveness. She's memorized him--from the way his muscles shift when he walks back to her, to the arrogance he wears as armor.

Now, though, he just seems _ confident_.

“A dishonored cripple,” he argues, kneeling before her, "Although I've retained _ some _skills."

“A knight."

Jaime laughs, "That's always you.” 

The first time Jaime knelt before her like this, she’d been so shocked she’d pushed him away. She'd told him it was improper, and really, it was the first in a procession of improprieties. He's upended all those indecent acts, making her seek them out.

His hand is steady, now, when he grabs her knee, and she doesn’t try and crush his head with her thighs like the first time. Then, he'd only laughed and said, "You're so _ strong_." 

Jaime is methodical in giving her pleasure, and hums happily against her when she touches his hair. She wars between looking and not looking; the sight of his golden head between her thighs is almost too much. Jaime moves his mouth away from her, and Brienne goes through a miniature period of mourning. He kisses her inner thigh, and his beard tickles against her, and that's _ almost _ as good. 

"I love your cunt."

"_Jaime_," she gasps.

"_What_? I'm just being honest," he rests his head against her leg, laughing. "Pray to the Stranger to let your awful dead septa know that a man _ happily _ spent--"

"That's not worth a _ prayer_." 

"I'll redouble my efforts, then." 

And Jaime does; he murmurs observations between his ministrations, tells her that he loves how she tastes, and that she grabs his hair. It's adds to the fire stoked within her, and she shouts his name at her release.

Jaime buries his head against her stomach, right arm around her back. His left hand is on her knee. He's still, and Brienne, breathless, runs her fingers through his hair. How does she proceed after he pushes her off a cliff and makes her feel something she didn't even know existed? She didn't know the first time, and the answer is no clearer now.

"The tally of my victories increases," his voice is muffled,. "My tourney record is frozen, so I have to fuel my pride somehow."

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously _ good_," he answers, "No one will sing of my deeds between your thighs, unfortunately. Then again, no one sings about the kingslaying, either."

"I've no talent for song."

"Really? I think that was a song, of sorts. Maybe not fit for a tavern, but nevertheless."

_ Gods_, his mouth, and she means that in more ways than one. She found him so irritating in those first months, with his quips and constant commentary. If he speaks again, Brienne might punch him, so she drags him off the floor and kisses him. He smirks at her the entire way. She tastes herself on him, another act she'd deemed mortifying that doesn't bother her now. 

This is a practiced dance by now, and she finds comfort in the familiarity of the steps. The comparison between lovemaking and sword fighting never bothers her. Jaime scrabbles up to meet her, practically into her lap, which Brienne wouldn't mind, except Jaime pushes at her shoulders until she falls backward.

He's all golden in the lamplight, and she's so desperately in love with him that she can't contain it within her.

Jaime's grinning down at her, both cocky _ and _ coy. He can manage the look better than she ever could, and she wonders if anyone in Seven Kingdoms can use it so effectively. She never wants him to use it on anyone else.

"You _ let _ me," he whispers like it's a conspiracy. 

Brienne just raises her eyebrows. 

"You don't _ have _to let me." 

This is all a feint; Brienne recognizes it, like all his tricks, even the dishonorable ones Bronn taught him. He's provoking her to action, so she reverses their positions. 

"_Wench_," he gasps when he lands, and she's looking down at him. He's wide-eyed, and vulnerable, and it overwhelms her with the intimacy of it. He _ trusts _ her. Jaime looks at her like this when she knocks him down in the training yard, sometimes while innocent Podrick is an onlooker. Only there, he’s more likely to whisper _ “ _ I dare you.” Now, Jaime just says “ _ Please. _”

Positions reversed, Jaime would tell her, with the calm of a man talking about the weather, that she looks like she wants to be fucked. That’s what _ he _ looks like now, and it makes her heart race. Brienne _ can’t _ tell him that, can’t even make her lips form the words. She’s wet, from before, and shifting just creates an unsatisfactory friction between her thighs.

Jaime looks bemused, with a hint of impatience. “Are you waiting for an invitation? If you look down, I think you’ll find--”

Brienne reaches between them and _ does _ find--palming him in her hand. Her hands are calloused, and not dainty, and Jaime shuts his eyes and thrusts up against her like that's exactly what he’s looking for. 

“Jaime?”

“Hmmm?”

“I want--”

“Then _ take _ me.” 

So, Brienne does--shifting until they slide together, her legs resting on either side of him. To look upon him is overwhelming, so she closes her eyes. Brienne had seen this before, or she _ thought _ she had. Soldiers lifted whores’ skirts and pulled them into their laps. It’s _ nothing _ like that, though, not when Jaime takes her right hand in his left and presses them to the blanket. Not when he tells _ her _ to move.

Brienne realizes, now, the appeal of leading. Past her embarrassment, she likes the dazed look that overcomes Jaime when she rocks against him, and the gasp that leaves him when she tightens her thighs around him. She likes the angle, the burst of pleasure that makes her see stars when she rocks forward. She likes that it uses her strength, and that Jaime likes that it does.

And he always, _ always _watches, even when she can't.

Pinning him down is easy; Brienne is used to being measured with her strength, and the skill is useful here. The golden hand is long discarded, lost in some similar moment earlier in the evening, so it’s Jaime’s bare wrist she holds down on the other side.

“_Faster_,” he asks, and it’s only to her benefit to oblige. 

It’s a strange dynamic--Brienne controls the pace, but Jaime issues demands, and when he’s too overcome to direct her, she leans down and kisses him, chaotic and uncoordinated. She releases his wrist, and he throws his right arm around her neck like she’s an anchor. It's a tempest from there, but Brienne always marvels at how in sync they are.

“You’re_ wonderful_,” he whispers into her ear, “and I don’t just mean when you ride my cock.”

She gasps _ something _ into Jaime’s shoulder, his name, maybe.

“So, _ so _ good,” and no matter what Jaime says, it sends a chill through her. “How do you manage to make fucking so _ gentle_?”

Brienne doesn't know the answer to that, either; she'd thought herself as nothing but her strength for so, so long. To have something else about her praised is affirming.

There’s more, of course; Jaime whispers into her ear, a litany of suggestions. Jaime could list off the grain inventory on Tarth, and she would react in kind. He takes over when she releases his hand and stills on top of him, and it's just as good to cede to him, to let him take her with long, slow strokes that she feels down to her toes 

“I’m yours.” It’s the only thing Brienne can manage, and she moves from where she's rested her head against his shoulder to look down at him. 

"Better than I deserve."

She doesn't have the will to argue with him, despite how wrong she thinks he is. Her hair is in her face, and Jaime ineffectively tries to push it back with his stump, unwilling to break contact with the hand now resting on the small of her back

And then, they’re both laughing. 

Jaime moves again one final push, and he shouts when he comes. Brienne watches, until she kisses him to quiet him. There's an entire hallway of people who _ shouldn't _ know what they are doing. Jaime embraces her and pulls her down to him. Out of habit, she tries to slide to the side to keep her weight off him.

"I'm not some waif."

"I'm...heavy."

"You're all muscle," he replies, "why would I want you off of me?"

"I...don't understand you, sometimes."

He's touching her hair, gently, as if she needs comfort. "You should; I'm very transparent."

When Brienne moves to the side, eventually, Jaime fetches a cloth and blows out her lantern. The cleanup job is woefully ineffectual, but good enough until morning. Jaime curls around her, head on her shoulder, and she drags the blankets over them. 

* * *

In the morning, Brienne tells him her terms, sword pointed at him while she does so.

“I want to send for Podrick once he’s ready to be a squire.”

_ That’s seriously one of the terms? _

“Are you confident he’ll make it that far?” 

“I _ want _to be confident he’ll make it that far.” Brienne steps forward, and Jaime dodges out of her reach.

“Done. If you can convince Lord Stark to acquiesce, you can bring Arya for all I care.” She could bring her entire _ class_, and Jaime wouldn’t object. 

“He’ll _ never _ allow that.” Their blades clash, echoing across the empty training yard.

“I know,” Jaime shrugs and grins at her, “what else?”

“I want my father present, so we have to wait until he can travel here.”

“Is that even a real condition?”

Brienne scoffs, but Jaime isn’t sure if it’s at his words, or the fact that he keeps evading her. “It’s a real condition if it’s important to me.”

“Ask me for something you _ don’t _ think I’ll agree to.”

She’s silent for a breath as they circle one another, “Casterly Rock will never call on Tarth for military aid.”

“You’re making me promise something I don't yet have the authority to promise.”

“And I’m asking you for something I don’t _ technically _ have the authority to ask,” she answers, “But I _ think _it’s what my father would say.”

“If I can see it done, I will. Tarth is remote, and pledged to the Baratheons. It doesn’t have much military to speak of. Except _ you_.”

Jaime strikes, and Brienne blocks it with ease. Podrick isn’t watching this morning, and they're alone, and they have this ridiculous plan, and it involves _ making Brienne his wife_. He’s terribly worried about a great many things, but he feels _ hope_, too.

“You do realize that _ none _ of your terms are unreasonable, right?”

“How should I know?”

“Your father’s choices demanded you give up being as you are--nothing you’ve asked for even compares.”

“My cloak, and my house,” Brienne says, “I’ll keep them."

"Tarth is your pride _ and _your legacy. I would never take that from you."

Brienne is fierce, even with a tourney sword in her hand, "I don’t need to come under your protection.”

"More likely the reverse,” he says, “Would you prefer that?” Jaime would happily take her name, but Tywin would never allow it, and that isn't the hill he wants to die on.

She looks at the ground, sheepish. What is she about to reveal? “I daydreamed about that, once.”

“About putting your cloak around _ my _shoulders?” He steps closer to her, suddenly less interested in swordplay. “I’m not too proud for that.”

Brienne looks up at him, “In my daydream, you let me.”

* * *

It doesn't take long for Arya to appear before morning lessons, Needle in hand. 

“You promised.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Brienne answers.

“What’s this about a promise?” Jaime looks over from where he’d been instructing Podrick on his footwork. Brienne hears the boy laugh, and wonders what Jaime said to make that happen. Brienne had been able to get Podrick to _ smile _ maybe a handful of times.

It’s heartening to see them getting along, but it sends her mind spiraling--taking Podrick as her squire, sending him to Casterly Rock, the _ why _ of going there in the first place. She’s scarcely sure she hasn’t dreamed the last day and a half.

“Ser Brienne promised to fight me,” Arya calls to him, “With a real sword.”

Podrick looks at them with eyes as large as saucers, and Jaime claps him on the shoulder. “The Maid of Tarth and the little she-wolf. Young Pod, we should stay out of the way.”

_ The Maid of Tarth _\--that’s a name she hasn’t heard in ages; calling her the Kingslayer’s Whore had taken its place. Jaime flashes a grin at her over Podrick’s head, and she stares back at him for just a moment too long.

“The Kingslayer is looking at you how Sansa looks at Ser Loras,” Arya says, “I’m glad I haven’t broken my fast yet.”

“Is that how I look?” Jaime asks; no one jumps in to answer him, though.

Brienne won’t let herself be goaded into embarrassment by the teasing of a child, so she looks down at Arya. “If you’ve time to jest, you’ve time to train.”

“I’m ready,” she holds Needle in front of her, “It’s you knights that are being all mushy.”

“I really _ do _ pity the knight that ends up with her as a squire,” Jaime stage whispers to Podrick, who nods. Podrick _ had _ spent a lot of time on the ground with Arya’s practice sword pointed at his face.

Arya is half her size, but the girl is fast, and Brienne’s usual method of waiting for her opponent to tire out won’t be effective here. Her reach isn’t great, though, so Brienne is able to easily sidestep all her advances. The biggest improvement she notices in Arya’s movements is her restraint; learning when _ not _ to strike is as important. 

“You’re better.”

Compliments make Podrick beam like a ray of sun parting the clouds, but Arya just looks up at Brienne and says, “Good.”

Brienne lets Arya guide her around the practice yard. She surprises Brienne a few times, incorporating things that Syrio Forel must have taught her--Braavosi water dancing isn’t terribly familiar to Brienne, but she’s glad she’s not the only person instructing Arya. Some of her fellow pages had mocked the fighting style, but it’s fast, and fluid, and suits Arya’s slight built. She doesn’t need to hit hard if she’s quick and accurate enough.

She’ll be as fine a fighter as anyone, but not with a longsword in her hand.

Jaime and Podrick abandon their drilling to watch. 

“Stab her with the pointy end!” Podrick calls out.

“I _ know _ that!’ Arya yells back.

Jaime lets out a carefree laugh. It takes a moment, but Podrick follows along, although at a much lower volume. _I’ll_ _marry him_, Brienne thinks, and suddenly, she isn’t anxious about the prospect of binding herself to him. Weren’t they already tied together? Bound by trust, and shared experiences, and not a small number of secrets. She loves him, and it’s a calm, reassuring feeling. Jaime deserves _more_, and if this is the more he wants, Brienne will honor it.

“Give the lady a few years, and you’ll have competition,” Jaime says when both Brienne and Arya have lowered their swords.

“Fight _ me _ next time, Kingslayer,” Arya says to him.

“Ah,” Jaime looks down at her, “you’d surely win, even now.”

“Would getting trounced by a girl bother you?”

He chuckles, and even though he’s not even speaking to Brienne, Jaime’s amusement warms her. “It wouldn’t,” he answers. “How could I spend so much time with Ser Brienne if it did?”

Brienne sighs fondly and leaves Jaime and Podrick, steering Arya into the armory.

“So, Aunt Lysa,” Arya whispers to her when they’re inside, “Any new clues?”

“I think you’ve enough information about _ that_,” Brienne answers.

“It’s _ my _ discovery!” Arya protests.

“And I thank you for sharing it, but that doesn’t mean you need to be more entrenched. It’s a problem for adults.”

Arya rolls her eyes, “Adults _ always _ say that.”

“We do.”

“I can help more, though.”

“_No. _”

Arya’s expression is grumpy; Brienne wars with whether to tell her father about this conversation.

* * *

“I’m your moral support,” Tyrion tells him as they walk to their father’s apartments. “Besides, without me, you wouldn’t have known when our father was returning to King’s Landing.”

“_You _ just want to watch the travesty this is going to be.” Jaime increases his pace out of anxiousness, then has to double back around for Tyrion to catch up. “A raven won’t work for this conversation.”

“No, dear brother, we want to _ see _ his face when you tell him this.”

Jaime knocks with his golden hand, enjoying the echoing thump the impact makes against the wood. An imposing knock for an imposing man. A steward answers and announces them--let it never be said that the patriarch of House Lannister opens his own doors.

Neither of his siblings have ever admitted it aloud, but Jaime is _ certain _ they’re all afraid of their father. Cersei, maybe the least, but she’d be the wiser for a little trepidation around him. He usually has no trouble summoning the courage needed to accomplish what he needs to, but Tywin looks at them both from across his heavy, wooden desk, and suddenly, Jaime is eight summer’s old and being forced to read for hours.

“Jaime,” Tywin says in greeting, placing the quill he’d been writing with back on its stand.

“And me,” Tyrion adds when Tywin doesn’t acknowledge him.

“...And you,” Tywin answers.

Jaime would wring his hands if he had two to do so. His father looks stern and impatient, as usual.

“I’ll inherit Casterly Rock.”

There. No need to dance around it--sometimes a direct strike is best. He’ll fight his father like Brienne fights an opponent, by waiting until Tywin tires out. Tywin raises his eyebrows and makes a fist with his right hand. He might as well have stood up and said _ what the fuck? _

“Why _ now_?” Tywin asks, “You’ve done everything in your limited power to avoid it thus far.”

He can think of many answers _ not _ to give his father, ones that won’t sway him or divulge secrets that need to be kept. “My pride has kept me from admitting it, but I can’t fight as I once did.”

It true, but his left-handed sword skills were not so bad to make him quit.

“A lord has less need for a sword,” Tywin answers. Skepticism is writ all across his features. “What else?”

Jaime swallows, steeling his nerves, “I wish to marry.”

At that, Tywin _ does _ lose his composure for an instant; he half-stands from the desk, and the wooden legs of the chair scrap across the stone floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion winces at the sound.

“_Who_?” Tywin says through clenched-teeth. “This is another course you’ve resisted, so doubtless you have a wife in mind.”

“Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

Tywin expression looks like he’s cycling through a list of names and houses. “Your _ squire_?” 

“The tall one,” Tyrion unhelpfully chimes in, “opposite of me.”

“And she’s my squire no longer,” Jaime stifles a smile--it was never a good tactic with their father, “She’s a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Tyrion chuckles to his left, “As you can see, Father, Jaime is quite smitten with his lady knight.”

Apparently, his brother didn’t agree about the status of jesting in front of Tywin Lannister.

“You’d take her to Casterly Rock?”

“Absolutely.”

His father would never see Brienne as she was--she’d be the Lady of Casterly Rock, bearer of Lannister hiers, another pawn he could move around on the map of Westeros. He’d think of her as an asset, or a liability, the same way he thought of all his children. He’d learn, though, that Brienne was stubborn, and couldn’t be bought. If Jaime was going to be lord of Casterly Rock, he couldn’t ask for a better ally.

“See, father,” Tyrion adds, “_ totally _ smitten--”

“She’s highborn, unwed, and free of scandal.” _ Brienne’s worst association is me_. “I’ll marry her, or no one, and spend the rest of my days in the Kingsguard. You can give the Rock to one of my innumerable cousins.” He doesn’t suggest it, but Tyrion would be a much better lord than Jaime will ever be.

Jaime could swear Tywin’s eye twitches, and he stares, and stares, until Jaime shifts uncomfortably.

_ This is my one power move, you old bastard. _

“A generous donation to the Sept will free you from your vows easily enough.”

“Money is more effective than all the pious prayer,” says Tyrion.

“There’s another piece to this,” Jaime doesn’t want to lose momentum, “I think both Tommen and Myrcella would benefit from being away from their mother.”

“You’d take Tommen to Casterly Rock?” Tywin sees his plan immediately.

“Being under Cersei’s influence is doing him no favors,” Jaime answers, “He’ll not sit on the Iron Throne, but he’ll need to not be so..._ soft_.”

Tywin _ smiles_, and Jaime knows he’s said the correct thing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Robert laughs, “Damn this fucking throne and every man who sits on it.”_
> 
> _“I had enough of it after five minutes.” Jaime wonders, sometimes, what would have happened if he’d refused to get up after Ned and Robert burst in._
> 
> _“Would that I could quit so easily,” Robert says. “You, though, with the approval of all the Lannister coin your bastard father threw at the High Septon, I release you from your vows as Kingsguard.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sad that I'm nearing the end of posting this. Finishing a writing project this long was unprecedented for me. I only started writing again, after a several year break, about a year ago. I've written nearly 150k words in 2019--an idea that would have made me laugh hysterically a couple years ago.
> 
> Anyway, this is my favorite chapter in the entire story! I've played it fast and loose with the history of Kingsguard dismissal, but I doubt anyone is going to mind. I also don't think the endgame of the narrative is going to be terribly surprising, but I hope you enjoy the journey.
> 
> As usual, thank you for every review, kudos, and bookmark! I love hearing what everyone thinks, so leave a comment if you feel inspired to.

Jaime spends a tense week waiting for _ whatever _it is that his father plans to do.

It’s a strange feeling, to go about his days thinking _ this is going to end soon_. Is this the last time he’ll stand outside the door of the small council? The last afternoon he’ll spend with Tommen _ and _ Myrcella. She’ll be safe, in Dorne, but lonely, regardless of who they sent to accompany her. He’ll have more time with Tommen, though, which is a bittersweet ache.

He paces his room in the White Sword Tower. It’s cramped and sparse; the room befit a knight who’d given up his title and lands in service to a king. Jaime had never felt terribly disadvantaged by his vows, but nevertheless, he will be glad to quit the space.

Jaime’s brooding when Arya Stark climbs through his open window.

“Kingslayer,” she says, brushing her dusty hands on her breeches.

“You just climbed through my fucking window.”

The girl shrugs, “It seemed the quickest course to get to you.”

“Does your father know you scale the sides of buildings?”

“Of course not,” Arya narrows her gray eyes, “He thinks me a babe who can’t do anything for herself.”

“For once, I am inclined to agree with Ned Stark.”

Arya scowls and digs in her pockets, pulling out an envelope with a broken wax seal that has seen better days. “You’ll eat your words when you read this, Kingslayer.”

She clearly has no intention of coming to him, so Jaime rises from his chair. “Do you call me Kingslayer because your father does?”

“No, I call you Kingslayer because you killed a king.”

Jaime holds out his left hand and Arya drops the envelope into it. “Ah, so you’re about accuracy, then.”

“Old Nan used to tell us stories about Aerys to keep us from misbehaving.”

“I can see how well they worked.” Probably about as well as any story told to Cersei and him as children; no one had been able to stop them from _ anything _ until Tywin sent Jaime away from Casterly Rock.

“They called him the Mad King for a reason, so it seems to me you did everyone a favor.”

“From the mouths of babes,” Jaime chuckles, “That attitude would have made the last fifteen years play out quite differently.”

“Open the envelope.”

“Fine, _ Lady _Arya.”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

The broken seal on the envelope is the trout of house Tully. “You opened it?”

“What does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to put it back.”

It dawns on Jaime exactly _ where _Arya must have procured this letter. “Did you climb into the Tower of the Hand?”

Arya gives him a smug grin, “Right through the window--just like today. I remembered where it was from when Ser Brienne and I went.”

Whether to scold her or be fucking impressed is something Jaime can’t decide, so he opens the envelope and unfolds the paper. It’s like when he was a child and would struggle through reading, only this time Jaime doesn’t think it has anything to do with his wits. “This is...written in code?”

“Yep.”

“So,_ how _ is this useful?”

“I can read it.”

Jaime looks up from the paper, “Are you a spymaster now?”

“No. It’s a code Mother used with Aunt Lysa when they were children. She taught it to me and Sansa when we were younger. I’ve never used it though--Sansa isn’t interested in secrets.”

“What does it say, then?”

“It says she’s afraid the Lannisters are plotting to kill her lord husband.”

* * *

“What, pray tell, do you think would have happened had you been _ caught_?”

Brienne’s anger at Arya _ almost _ eclipses her ability to process the information contained in the letter. Arya has the sense to at least appear admonished, but her self-satisfied air persists. “I wasn’t, though. So what does it matter?”

“Give the girl a pass,” Jaime says, “she’s been more productive than all the weeks we’ve spent knocking our heads against the walls.”

“You’d _ enable _ her?”

“No, but it’s already done, and we’ve more pressing matters to concern ourselves over.”

Jaime’s correct, so Brienne relents. “Arya, you’re _ certain _ no one saw you?”

“I’m certain. I’m small, and no one pays me any mind.”

“Another bad deed pinned on the Lannister name.” Jaime sounds irritated, and he paces to length of the storage room Arya suggested as their meeting place. The only light is a window high on the wall, and dust swirls in the shafts of light.

“And you’re sure it’s not one of you?” Arya inquires. “I mean, not _ you_, Kingslayer, but some other Lannister.”

“Lady Lysa seemed displeased enough to try and rid herself of her husband, and shifting the blame away from herself is logical.” Brienne is mostly thinking aloud. “I don’t feel like she has the capacity to commit murder and successfully shift the blame.”

“She seemed a little mad,” Arya adds helpfully, “but she wanted Mother to get that letter. Why?”

“To tell Lord Stark,” Jaime guesses, “who would then move to have the Lannisters blamed _ after _ the Hand is killed.”

“Could someone be assisting her? Who would stand to benefit the most from the death of the Hand of the King?” Brienne shifts on the crate she’s made into her seat--the space is entirely too small.

“Anyone who would benefit from the discord,” Jaime pauses, “What if it’s the reverse?”

“You mean Aunt Lysa is being used by someone else?” Arya says.

He nods, “The person _ knows _she’s unhappy and is capitalizing on it.”

“Who?” Brienne asks. 

“We’ll have to find out who she associates with, and, most importantly, who among that list is grubbing for power,” Jaime says, “And _ not _ by you spying on her, Arya.”

She looks sullen, but answers, “_Fine_.”

When Arya runs from the room, Jaime takes Brienne’s arm and holds her back, “What if the person manipulating Lysa _ knows_, and that’s why the letter says she suspects the Lannisters?”

“I’d considered that, but didn’t want to say anything in front of Arya.”

“I suppose it doesn’t alter the _ plan_.”

Marriage. Casterly Rock. She knows he’s spoken to Tywin, but the _ waiting_. “N-no,” Brienne stumbles, “the plan is good.”

“The plan is _ brilliant_,” he corrects.

“More importantly, how are _ either _of us going to keep an eye on Lysa?” She’s half-a-head taller than everyone, and he’s Jaime Lannister.

“You don’t think we blend in, ser?”

* * *

Tailing Lysa is laughable. Brienne has no reason to be near the Tower of the Hand, and, according to Arya, Lysa’s paranoia means she rarely leaves. It doesn’t help that Brienne feels like the most recognizable figure in King’s Landing, and deals very poorly with the minor amount of celebrity foisted upon her. The occasional young girl comes up to her and says she wants to be a knight--that part, Brienne likes, but the rest is uncomfortable. 

Tarth would be better--at least she knows the people. Casterly Rock will be much, _ much _ worse.

The worst part is, Arya would be perfect for the job; her assessment of herself is correct--she’s small, and no one pays her any attention. Meaning, she’s the exact opposite of both Jaime and her. 

“We’re not jeopardizing Arya’s safety...again,” Brienne tells Jaime the next day. She sat up half the night, alone, staring out her window thinking of shit plans to spy on Lysa.

“You’re confident we can _ stop _ her?”

“No,” she admits, “but I can convince myself I didn’t enable one _ my _charges to endanger herself.”

Jaime’s expression brightens, “I’m a _ Kingsguard_.”

“Um, yes?”

“_No one _ questions me. How many mornings have I traipsed across the Red Keep from _ your _ room?”

“I don’t keep _ count_.”

“Let me use that while I still possess the white cloak.”

Brienne thinks it might have just as much to do with being a Lannister, but the two of them need any advantage they can get, so she keeps the thought to herself.

* * *

Two flagons of an expensive Dornish vintage is all it takes to trade assignments with Ser Boros.

“If you want to fuckin’ stand here, be my guest,” Boros tells him, “You can listen the Hand’s lady wife ramble all night in my place, Lannister.”

Boros doesn’t ask for a _ why_, and Jaime doesn’t expound on his reasoning. Ser Barristan is Jaime’s favorite of all of Robert’s Kingsguard, and that’s saying something. The rest are ineffectual at best, and cruel at worst. It’s not like Robert took great care in choosing them.

Taking Boros’s post means staying up all night, which Jaime assumes he will manage with ease. Under Aerys, he’d been the youngest and least trusted because of his name; he’d stood overnight guard at plenty of doors in his tenure. The Tower of the Hand will be pleasant compared to standing outside Aerys’s door and listening to Queen Rheanys’s pleas. 

_ We don’t protect people _ from _ the king_, he’d been told. 

By the last bell, when night technically becomes morning, he’s yawning into his gloved hand. It’s not the hour, it’s the lack of any semblance of anything to do. He’s certainly stayed up half the night with Brienne, but they were decidedly _ busier. _ No one has come or gone from the tower since after the evening meal, no noise has come from Lysa’s chambers for several hours, and no one has summoned him. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms, scanning the hallway for _ anything _ of note. Ser Barristan would tell him not to look so sloppy.

_ I’m an old fucking man to find this so tiring. _

Maybe some moderately-skilled sellsword could come in and give him something to do. Noone _ too _ good, or he’d have a problem. Jaime’s _ about _ to start singing tavern songs to keep himself awake when a boy no older than Podrick appears at the door. 

“I’ve a message for the lady,” the boy says, pulling an envelope out of a pocket on his grimy tunic.

“Can it wait until morning? It’s after the second bell,” Jaime answers, “The lady is probably sleeping.”

“No, ser. I’m to give the letter directly to Lady Arryn.”

Could this be the clue Jaime is waiting for? Ser Barristan _ or _ the Hand will probably have his hide for letting a lad who looks like he came out of Flea Bottom into the Tower of the Hand in the middle of the night. 

He holds out his hand, “Give it to me; I’ll pass it to Lady Arryn.”

“The letter’s not to leave my hand.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jaime knocks on the door, “Lady Arryn, there’s a message for you.” 

The situation gets more suspicious when Lysa opens the door before the third knock. She’s wrapped in a dressing, but was clearly not sleeping. She looks up at him, “Kingslayer? Why are _ you _ posted at my door?”

“Ser Boros and I traded posts for the evening.”

Lysa narrows her eyes at him, “That won’t happen again; I don’t trust you.”

_ Ah, yes, because Boros is so much more upstanding than the Lannister_.

“My lady,” the boy says, holding out the note, “from my lord.”

Lysa takes the note, and Jaime is just able to make out the wax seal stamped with the image of a mockingbird. She drops a coin in the boy’s hand and slams the door shut.

When dawn moves over the keep, and one of the Hand’s personal guards comes to relieve him, Jaime keeps himself awake long enough to make it to Brienne’s door.

* * *

Brienne’s dozing when Jaime knocks--it’s definitely him because the sound of the metal hand against the wood is distinct. 

“_What_?” she snaps, getting up from the bed and opening her door. Her feet are bare, and her hair has come completely out of the sad braid she’d tried to put it in for sleep.

“Ser,” Jaime greets her; he’s attired in his Kingsguard armor. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” Brienne lets him in and bolts the door. “I assumed you’d meet me in the yard.” 

Normally, Jaime _ leaves _ now, not appears.

“I offered Ser Boros a case of Dornish red to take his overnight post at the Tower of the Hand.”

Brienne raises an eyebrow, “It sounds like you got the short end of that transaction.”

“Boros thought so too, but he didn’t press it.” Jaime yawns. “Can I sit? Gods, I’m too old to stand all night outside a door.”

When he sits, Brienne joins him. “So, I assume this trade had some purpose?”

Jaime tells her the story. “I don’t know a house sigil that’s a mockingbird, though. Then again, I tried my damndest to avoid remembering information like that.”

“I’m not familiar with it either. The whole thing is suspicious, though.”

“It’s more information than we had before.” Jaime yawns again. “Can I _ sleep_?” 

“You’ve a bed.” She’ll let him stay, but there’s something enjoyable about nettling him first.

“An empty, faraway bed.”

“We’re supposed to train,” Brienne crosses her arms.

“Unless you want Podrick to rob me of my other hand, we can miss a morning,” Jaime answers. “You’re _ relentless_.”

“Dedicated.”

Jaime pulls off his glove. “Be _ dedicated _and help me with this blasted armor.”

Brienne does, and can’t argue that she’s much more efficient. In moments, the white armor is collected in an orderly pile under her window.

“Do you struggle, melodramatically, with this on purpose?”

Another yawn, “I’d _ never_, ser. A good squire would do this without being asked.”

“I’m no longer your squire, and I _ never _ helped with your armor when I was.”

“It was remiss of me not to command you to when I could,” Jaime teases, “and now, you’re to be my lady wife, and you’ll never listen to me again.”

Brienne sighs, but she’s so, _ so _ fond of him that her exasperation doesn't matter. “Is there some responsibility you’re avoiding by being here?”

“No, that was part of the trade. Ser Boros is enjoying a leisurely morning standing, asleep, outside the Small Council.” Jaime pulls back her blankets and deposits himself on them. “Stay with me.”

“An improper suggestion.” She’s moving toward him despite her words.

“We left propriety behind _ long _ ago, ser.”

“M-maybe we should endeavour to do better, at least until--” Brienne contradicts her words with by wrapping an arm around him. “The septon will probably _ know_.”

“I’ll tell him myself, should he ask, every sordid bit,” Jaime sounds half-asleep, but it’s easy to imagine him regaling some poor septon with explicit details. “How long until morning lessons?”

“Two hours or so.” The whole situation feels decadent, and Brienne suddenly doesn’t mind at all. What’s the harm in sleeping in? Where, _ really_, is the impropriety of being sheltered together under her quilt?

“Good. Don’t wake me when you leave.”

* * *

Brienne spends the morning thinking of house sigils. 

The sun and moon on her cloak, the one she’ll keep on her shoulders. A red backdrop with a golden lion, the same color as Jaime’s hair, the only part of him visible when she’d left him in her room that morning. 

A stag.

A jumping trout.

A mockingbird.

At midday, she goes to the palace library. The space is warm in the afternoon sun, and the high windows, while open, do little to mitigate the temperature. If there’s a sea breeze, it isn’t reaching her.

Meaning to pick up where Jaime left off, she searches for a text on the great houses of Westeros, hoping to find a mockingbird somewhere amongst them. After a quarter hour, Brienne wishes she’d returned to her room and picked something lighter to wear. She takes off her gloves and holds her hair up off her neck. The chair is too small, of course, and her knees bump under the table when she tries to make herself comfortable.

The only thing the book teaches her is that Baratheon’s _ always _ have black hair, regardless of what house they marry. Generations and generations of dark hair and dark eyes. The page about the Lannisters confirms the opposite--the golden hair and green eyes vanish unless they intermarry. Tywin and Joanna, first cousins, had three golden children.

Is this how Lord Arryn figured it out? Would she see this pattern if she didn’t already know the truth of it?

If she bears Jaime’s children, they’ll _ definitely _ be blonde. 

Brienne slams the book shut in frustration after flipping through the entirety of it. Not one damn mockingbird to be found. A maester is shuffling around, links on the chain around his neck clanking together in the silence.

“Maester,” Brienne stands, calling out to the man. “I’m looking for a house sigil that isn’t in this book.”

“They’re _ all _ in that book, my lady.” The maester looks like her like he’s trying to put together pieces that don’t fit--her stature, her gender, her attire.

“It’s a mockingbird."

The maester shakes his head, “Perhaps from Essos? I know of no such sigil here in Westeros.”

Brienne thanks him and puts the book back. Outside, she’s frustrated at her lack of headway, but happy to be in the cooler air. She walks, aimless, wondering what to do next. In the end, she decides to visit Lord Stark. Maybe it’s some obscure Northern house?

His guard, Jory, lets Brienne in with no trouble. Lord Stark is scribbling furiously with a quill when she enters.

“Ser Brienne!” He rises from the desk and holds out a hand to her.

“Lord Ned,” she answers, the informality of it still awkward on her tongue. Jaime japing at her about it didn’t help. “I’ve interrupted you.”

“Not at all; I was writing a letter to Cat about Arya’s progress; she’s cross that I haven’t yet returned to Winterfell.” Brienne hears the warmth in his voice when he speaks of Lady Catelyn.

“I’ve a question for you,” Brienne says, “then I’ll leave you to your letter writing.”

“Of course.”

She explains the sequence of events, leaving out Arya’s climbing into Lysa’s chambers and stealing the letter. “I couldn’t find the sigil, and even asked a maester,” Brienne ends with.

“That’s because it’s fabricated,” he answers, “It’s the crest of Lord Baelish, one he made himself.”

“The Master of Coin?”

“One and the same; he grew up with Lysa and Cat at Riverrun.”

* * *

In the end, both Tyrion and his father were correct: a generous donation is all it takes to release Jaime of his Kingsguard vows. It’s irregular, but not unprecedented; Jaime spends an entire afternoon scouring the records in the White Sword Tower _ and _ the White Book itself, and can count on his remaining fingers instances of a Kingsgaurd being dismissed.

Well, there’s no men like him, anyway.

The loss of his swordhand makes a fine justification to lean on, but the clanging of Lannister gold in the High Septon’s coffers is the linchpin of the whole thing.

“Well,” Robert Baratheon says when Jaime stands before him in the throne room, “You haven’t tried to slit my throat these last fifteen years, Kingslayer.”

Jaime keeps looking at the spot where Aerys Targaryean’s body had fallen, mere steps from the throne where Robert now sits. He can _ see _ it, vividly, as if it was still tangible before his eyes. He’s never admitted it to anyone, not even Brienne, but he avoids the throne room if possible.

“You told me not to make a habit of it,” Jaime sounds especially glib, “And you’ve not done anything _ near _ enough to warrant it.”

_ No, one regicide was enough for a lifetime. _

Robert laughs, “Damn this fucking throne and every man who sits on it.”

“I had enough of it after five minutes.” Jaime wonders, sometimes, what would have happened if he’d refused to get up after Ned and Robert burst in.

“Would that I could quit so easily,” Robert says. “_ You_, though, with the approval of all the Lannister coin your bastard father threw at the High Septon, I release you from your vows as Kingsguard.”

The white cloak is easy enough to remove one-handed; he would struggle to replace it with another in the moment, and is glad he doesn’t have to. Doubtless, there are several people in the room who would get no little enjoyment at watching him fumble. In a fit of petulance, he lets the cloak drop to the ground.

“I feel as though I’ve dropped an entire stone in weight,” Jaime muses aloud, “They’re quite heavy, those Kingsguard oaths.”

“I, for one, am glad to see one more Lannister leaving King’s Landing,” Robert leans back on the throne, “You’re fucking _ everywhere_.”

_ I’m pleased to get away from you, too, _ Jaime thinks. Robert waves a hand in his general direction, and Jaime bows and decides to make his exit.

“The Lord of Casterly Rock is ever at your service, your majesty,” Jaime responds. 

Let them think him flippant, just once more, and that he didn’t care for the white cloak and never had. It’s not true, though, and when he steps back into the afternoon sunlight, he walks no more than ten paces before he has to sit down on a stairway. The white cloak was a burden, a tangle of oaths sworn and broken, a decade spent standing outside doorways protecting people of varying worthiness, and turning a blind eye to so, so many things. He wanted to be rid of it, but the loss of it leads him to stare blankly at the people milling about in front of him. The sun moving across the courtyard marks the passage of the afternoon. At least three people glance at him, which makes sense--Lannisters don’t make a habit of sitting on stairways looking forlorn.

* * *

“Somehow, you always know where I am.”

Brienne nervously paced her room, so pacing outside seemed preferable. Only pacing outside inevitably lead her to the vicinity of the throne room, where she finds Jaime, seated on the steps.

“It’s not a coincidence; you told me your audience with King Robert was today.”

Jaime sighs, “You could let me think about it romantically for just a minute."

"I was...worried."

"Afraid I'd say something impudent and lose my head?"

"No, just--"

"I’ve been released from the Kingsguard.”

She holds out her hand to help him up, “How do you feel?” 

“Different? Lighter, maybe?

They’re in public, and she thinks to let go once he’s standing, but Jaime doesn’t let her.

_ Oh. _

He doesn't have to, does he? 

"Walk with me?" 

The golden hand bumps against her when Jaime takes her arm. Neither of them seem to have a destination in mind, so Brienne steers them away from the middle of the keep. She’s aware of how mismatched they look, as usual. No one pays her as much mind as it _ feels _ like they do, though.

“Are you trying to show me off, ser?”

“Yes,” Brienne answers out of spite. “I’m going to parade you around the city as my prize.”

“As my lady wishes.” Reversed, she’d be embarrassed; Jaime laughs, though, and she abandons flustering him.

_I can kiss him_, she thinks. _We’re outside, and it’s not proper, but I _can. Doing so is breaking no vow, revealing no secret.

“I can kiss you _ in public_.”

“You were thinking that, too? People will think it improper.”

Jaime answer to that _ is _ to kiss her, politely enough that she isn’t mortified, but definitely more than a septon would approve of. Maybe people notice, maybe they don’t? Brienne can’t bring herself to care.

“_Fuck _ people,” Jaime says when he grinning up at her again.

Brienne carried their secret for a few short months, and already it wore thin. “No more sneaking across the Keep at dawn.”

“Your reputation, though...”

“...Was ruined long ago, in that regard. People _ thought _ that you’d bedded me months before it actually happened.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s only notable because it’s _ me_,” Brienne shakes her head, “and _ you_. And that won’t get easier.”

“I’ll hang anyone who dares to mock the Lady of Casterly Rock.”

“You’ll be a lord with no bannermen or subjects in a year,” Brienne says, “And besides, I can just put them to the sword myself.”

* * *

Jaime’s wearing no armor at all when he enters the White Sword Tower for the last time, Podrick trailing behind him. For how he feels about it, he might as well be entering the tower naked as his nameday. Ser Barristan is there, reading through the White Book like he was fucking waiting for Jaime to waltz in. It’s typical.

“Ser Jaime,” the Lord Commander calls out, “Your privilege secured you an exit from an oath sworn until death.”

Of course, Barristan thinks him flippant in this moment, too.

“A one-handed Kingsguard is to no one’s benefit.”

“And yet, we serve for life.”

“The things we do for love,” Jaime looks around the common room, “And for nicer lodgings.”

Barristan answers him with silence as Jaime winds his way up the stairs to his room. 

It’s the work of a few moments to gather his belongings; Podrick holding one end of his trunk while Jaime struggles, one-handed, with the other side.

“Ser, is this _ all _ of your things?” Podrick asks after the first trip down the stairs.

“Are you impressed by my modest wardrobe?”

“You’re a lord, ser,” Podrick looks around the room, “Your lord father brings cartloads of things in his retinue.”

“My father told me my new apartments would ‘be fitting of my station.’”

Podrick wrinkles his nose, “So, they’ll be fancy?”

“Decidedly so. Tywin Lannister shows his might through wealth, and possessions are one way to manage that.”

“And you, ser?”

“I’ve never wished for power like my father has.”

Podrick ruminates on the idea in silence as they make two trips down the stairs with items that don’t fit neatly in the trunk. His life _ does _ look quite meager, stacked in a pile outside the front entrance of the Tower. 

“I think I prefer Ser Brienne’s power over Lord Lannister's,” Podrick announces after the last trip.

The boy is quiet, but strangely astute, like he’s saving his words to use wisely. It’s a good quality, and will surely keep him out of trouble. Talking too much had ever yielded the opposite for Jaime.

“Pod, elaborate.”

“We all respect her because she’s kind, not because we’re afraid of her,” Podrick explains. “She _ can _be frightening, though, I think.”

“She’s astonishing,” Jaime agrees, “And _ terrifying. _We should say these things in her presence, sometime.”

Podrick blushes, “She’d be _ very _embarrassed.”

“All the more reason to move forward with it. We can start a Brienne of Tarth appreciation society.”

Jaime thinks it’s a fine idea, but young Podrick looks skeptical.

* * *

The chambers his father thinks befit the almost-lord of Casterly Rock are ridiculous in their extravagance. The rooms are so festooned with red and gold that Jaime expects his father thinks he's going to forget his own name if he doesn’t encounter the Lannister sigil everytime he turns his head.

Podrick stared around the room in awe when he helped Jaime unpack his things.

“I would _ never _ decorate a room like this,” Jaime tells the boy when he locks the door as they leave. “ _ That _ space will take some acclimating.”

The decor is a missive from his father, one that didn’t need to be written or spoken for Jaime to understand--become the role Twyin has wanted for him since he blindly ignored the truth that Cersei was his first-born.

It takes three mornings of waking up in his extremely comfortable new bed for the acclimation to occur. The first morning, Jaime stares at the nearly blood-red velvet of the canopy above him. When was the last time he slept in a bed like this? Back at Casterly Rock when he was a child, and he would take Cersei by the hand and pull the heavy curtains closed behind her. His world was so, so small, then.

The second morning, Jaime spreads out on the bed like a starfish on the beach and doesn’t reach the edges. This a _ good _ bed; the sheets are definitely silk. In a bed like this, he wants to bump into Brienne if he stretches.

In fact, Jaime doesn’t want to have to move at all to find Brienne.

The third morning, Brienne _ is _there, and Jaime decides he can inhabit a room like this if he can share it with her. Where he was drowning in Lannister crimson and gold, before, now there are flashes of sapphire blue, and it’s enough to make the space feel like home.

She’s probably already awake when he stirs, repositioning under her arm draped around his torso so he can face her. He clings to her, tucking his head under her chin.

“All this _ space_, and here you are,” she teases, “This bed is even larger than mine at home.”

“Only the best for us Lannisters.”

“We might as well be in a camp tent, for all the room you give me.”

“Is _ room _what you want?”

“No.” Brienne sounds relaxed in a way Jaime rarely hears. Jaime thinks of her expression as she sleeps, absent the scowl she wears when frustrated. The burden of the secret has been lifted from her, and her whole demeanor brightens. 

The bells chime outside the window, much closer than Jaime is used to hearing them. 

“It’s late,” he says, “For you, anyway.”

“I should go,” she answers, removing her arm around him and half sitting up.

“We’ve broken a personal record by sleeping in late, and it would be _ very _ strange if I snuck out of this room.” Jaime sits up and pushes the curtains open, letting the morning sunlight flood across the bed. He blinks a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “You’ve nowhere to be; it’s the pages’ day off. And I…”

“You’re the master of your time now,” Brienne finishes. She’s doing her usual sheet clutching, only this time the red silk is pinned under her arms. The material is too fine for a pair of knights, but just right for a lord and his lady. 

Well, a lord and his _ almost _ lady.

“I _ love _this bed,” Jaime answers, “and I think sleep isn’t the only way to appreciate it.”

“I, too, can imagine other possibilities.”

How far they've come, that Brienne joins in on his innuendo.

When he goes to her, Brienne drops the sheet, and welcomes him into her arms. He’s seen her in moonlight, and lamplight, and even the twilight before dawn, but never in daylight. The brightness suits her, the valiant knight that she is. 

An uninterruptible span of time like this is completely foreign to him, so they make love until the entire room is bathed in sunlight, and Jaime whispers into her ear, “This suits you, my lady.”

_ Ser _ makes her proud, and Jaime knows that, but, today, being called a lady makes Brienne blush crimson.

“What does?” she asks, brow furrowed.

“Sunlight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want writing updates and to hear me screeching on tumblr, follow me at https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How would you punish her?”_
> 
> _Jaime tries not to look surprised at Lord Arryn's question. “Exile, perhaps? Or return her to her father? Execution seems too grisly for a highborn lady.” Lysa’s head on a pike overlooking the city wouldn’t send a good message. “She was Littlefinger’s pawn.”_
> 
> _“And what should I do with you and the queen?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is five days later than I meant it to be! I got busy with real life work stuff and the JB Appreciation Week prompts (not that I did most of them).
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :D

Jaime _ insists _ on coming with her to talk to Ser Barristan.

“Maybe I should go alone,” Brienne tries when Jaime greets her at her door.

“Why? Are you _ embarrassed, _my lady?”

He’s taken to calling her _ my lady _ and announcing her as his _ betrothed _to anyone who will listen. The worst was in front of Bronn and Tyrion; they snickered in unison until her ears burned. 

“No, but the two of you put each other on edge. It’s already going to be difficult enough to explain the whole series of events while leaving out Arya _ climbing through windows._”

“I’m a better liar than you,” Jaime offers, clearly thinking it’s evidence that he should accompany her.

“I’m trying _ not _ to lie--”

“Omitting something is _ still _ a lie, technically. Not that I mind.”

Brienne walks to the White Sword Tower, and Jaime is still following her, so she gives in and allows him to accompany her.

Ser Barristan is in the Lord Commander’s chamber, as usual. He looks at the two of them up and down before clearing his throat and placing the stack of envelopes he’d been sorting back on the desk.

“Ser Jaime. Or is it Lord, now? You’ve barely been gone three days, and here you are again.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Jaime answers, “And I found myself missing the austerity of your company, ser.”

Brienne doesn’t know whether to laugh or put her hand over Jaime’s mouth and drag him into the common room. The only thing stopping Jaime from _ always _ speaking to the Lord Commander like that was the hierarchy of the Kingsgaurd. Freed from that, Jaime is being, well, _ himself. _

Ser Barristan’s expression is completely deadpan. “Ser Brienne, I assume there’s a reason for your visit, considering you’re not usually as...flippant as Ser Jaime.”

_ He’s not flippant, _ Brienne wants to say, _ but he wants you to _ think _ he is. _

Brienne sits in the chair across from the desk, “There is, actually, ser. We’ve unearthed a plot to assassinate the Lord Arryn.”

“_Both _ of you?”

“Mostly Jaime, really.” Brienne doesn’t add that the rest was her scolding Arya for sneaking and stealing. 

He sits up straighter in his chair and leans forward on his elbows, “Tell me, who do you suspect is behind this plot?”

“It’s fucking Littlefinger,” Jaime interjects, sitting on the wooden arm of Brienne’s chair, even though there’s a perfectly good empty one next to her. She ends up with a pile of crimson fabric in her lap.

Brienne takes the note Arya found out of her pocket and passes it across the desk, “Lady Lysa was going to send this to her sister, Lord Stark’s wife, but we intercepted it.

“Before you look at it and think you’ve forgotten how to read, it’s in code.”

“Jaime, I think you’re the only one who thought--” Brienne interrupts. 

Ser Barristan clears his throat, “I’m not going to ask _ how _ you found this letter, but I am going to ask you who can read the code.”

Jaime crosses his arms, looking disgruntled. “Arya Stark. Her mother taught it to her. The note blames the Lannisters for plotting to kill Lord Arryn, which is frankly banal at this point. We can’t be the cause of all the deceit and upheaval in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“And _ how _ does this connect to Petyr Baelish?”

Ser Barristan listens as Jaime tells the story of Lysa’s midnight note runner. 

“We think Littlefinger is manipulating Lady Lysa so she’ll help him execute his plan to kill Lord Arryn. Lord Stark told me of their unhappy marriage, and that Lady Lysa is in poor health,” Brienne explains. “I visited her with Arya, and can confirm she seems unwell.”

“I don’t think it’d take much to get her to slip some poison into her lord husband’s wine cup.”

“I didn’t realize knights were investigators,” Ser Barristan looks between the two of them again, “the Hand’s death would sow discord, which is Petyr Baelish’s favorite way to vie for power. Using Lady Lysa and having her pass the blame yet again is logical.”

Jaime stands up, “Let’s go arrest him.”

“A week ago, I would have let you, but you’re a Kingsguard no longer, and don’t have the authority.”

Jaime sits back down, “...A worthy trade off.”

Ser Barristan is quiet for a moment. “We’ll arrest him tomorrow, at the Small Council meeting. Littlefinger will have less of an advantage than if we approach him outside the Red Keep. I’ll put Ser Arys on guarding the door. He’s loyal.”

“And the only Kingsguard besides _ you _ that isn’t utter shit,” Jaime adds.

“You were never so vocal in your opposition when you were among our ranks.”

“Would you have listened if I had been? The lifetime nature of the oath engenders nothing but bad behavior. King Robert didn’t give a _ fuck _ who took the white cloak. The oaths are too rigid and dozens of _ horrible _ things fall through the cracks.” He stands up and turns to the door.

“Jaime--”

“I’ll wait outside for the rest,” Jaime as he shuts the door harder than is necessary.

“Ser, I--”

Ser Barristan is smiling, so Brienne stops mid sentence. 

“He’s quite changed from when I assigned you to be his squire. I know Lord Tywin wanted him to quit, which was successful in the end, but he’s…”

“...As he’s always been; you just didn’t want to look past what you _ thought _ you saw.”

Brienne’s angry for Jaime, especially when he won’t stand up for himself. It will _ never _ be her place to correct the misconception, so her only recourse his to repeat what _ she _ sees.

“Perhaps,” Ser Barristan admits, “but you’ve changed his attitude.”

“I’ve...attempted to be a positive influence.”

The smile turns into a laugh, “Tell me, Brienne, did your involvement with Ser Jaime really begin just days ago, when he was free to do so?”

Of all the things Brienne _ can’t _ successfully lie about, this is the worst. “N-no, ser. I know it wasn’t _ right_, but--”

He waves a hand, dismissing Brienne’s words. “I can’t punish Ser Jaime for it now, even if I deigned to, I lack the authority. I don’t mind seeing Lord Twyin’s getting his wishes in a way that will displease him.”

“Ser--”

“Come to the Small Council meeting tomorrow, after it begins. You can wait in the corridor with Ser Arys until we make the arrest. For your efforts, you deserve to witness the look on Littlefinger’s face.”

* * *

Neither of them sleep well that night. 

Brienne stares at the canopy above Jaime’s bed, mind stuck on the fact that Ser Barristan guessed the nature of their relationship long before it was appropriate to even _ have _ that relationship.

“Ser Barristan asked if we were involved while you were still in the Kingsguard,” she says without ascertaining if Jaime is awake first.

“The Lord Commander isn’t stupid.”

“All I could think when he told me was how glad I am that he can’t punish you,” she answers. “What kind of person does that make me?”

“Still nobler than the rest of us combined; don’t fret over it.”

Jaime is uncharacteristically distant from her, and she can reach an entire arm span without finding him. “What’s keeping you awake?” she asks.

“The Hand still _ knows _; I’ll have to speak with him, and--”

“You’ll have saved his life.”

“So he can reveal a truth that can ruin me?”

“Our plan is _ good _\--we’ll make it work.”

* * *

In the morning, they show up outside the Small Council Chamber. Brienne wears her sword at her hip, but no armor. She’s not expecting a fight, and stomping through the Red Keep in full knight attire makes her feel like she takes up more space than she usually does.

“Here for the show?” Ser Arys whispers to Jaime as they near the door.

“Hopefully a better one than any mummer’s display I’ve seen here at court,” Jaime replies.

“I’ve envious that you can no longer be assigned this job.”

Jaime laughs quietly, “It’s the most tedious part, isn’t it?”

Brienne leans against the wall to stop herself from pacing out of nerves. Jaime keeps making small talk with Ser Arys, practically ignoring her. It might look discourteous, but smalltalk is her weakness, and Jaime is actually doing her a favor. She listens for any noise from inside the Small Council chamber--the wooden door is thick, though, and only yelling would be able to be heard from the hall.

Yelling occurs, though, soon, enough--it ends Jaime’s hushed conversation with Ser Arys and rips Brienne from her spiraling thoughts about Jaime’s children, and the letter she knows she needs to write to her father. She recognizes the tenor of Ser Barristan’s voice, loud enough through the door to know the Lord Commander is speaking, but not loud enough to make out the words. There’s the unmistakable sound of chair legs scraping against stone, another shout, and then a dull _ thunk _ like a grown man hitting the ground.

“That’s my cue,” Ser Arys says. Brienne doesn’t know the man, but he sounds supremely amused when he opens the door to the chamber.

The sight that greets the three of them _ is _amusing, but Brienne has the professionalism to keep a neutral expression. Petyr Baelish is face down on the stone floor, and Ser Barristan has his arms wrenched behind his back.

“You’ve _ no proof_,” Littlefinger hisses into the floor.

“We’ve enough proof to search your quarters, and those of Lady Lysa, and to hold you until in custody until we do,” Ser Barristan answers.

Stannis and Renly Baratheon have identical expressions on their faces, and both of them have risen from their chairs and taken steps back from the table. Brienne can’t think of two family members more ill-suited to one another in terms of disposition, but right now they look supremely related. 

Jaime enters the chamber properly, “I _ think _ searching Lady Lysa’s apartments will reveal several letters with mockingbird seals stamped on them.”

“It’s _ him_,” Littlefinger gestures his head to where Jaime is standing, “Look to the Lannisters if you want to find out who wants the Hand dead. _ That’s _ who Lysa is afraid of.”

“You’re lazy to blame my house for your machinations,” Jaime sounds especially smug.

Lord Arryn hasn’t spoken yet, from his seat at the head of the long table where Robert _ should _ be sitting, if the king cared enough to attend these meetings. “You’re her lover,” he says to Littlefinger. “Lady Lysa may have no affection for me, but her fixation on _ you _ is hard to overlook.”

Brienne’s mouth is probably gaping, and she glances at Jaime, who can’t seem to erase the surprise from his features, either.

Varys, silent until now, chuckles under his breath.

“You _ slanderous_\--” 

_ “Enough_,” Ser Barristan interrupts, dragging Littlefinger to his feet. “Ser Arys, if you would assist me in escorting Lord Baelish to the black cells.” He turns to Jaime and her. “If you go to the Tower of the Hand, you should find Lady Lysa already in custody. Feel free to search her rooms.”

* * *

The search of Lysa’s rooms reveals a variety of correspondence between her and Litterflinger, related to both their tysts and the plot to poison Jon Arryn. They also find a small vial of what a maester identifies as Tears of Lys.

“Poison,” Ned says when they find the vial, “They likely would have never caught either of them.”

Ned spends a long amount of time in his chambers with Lord Arryn while Jaime nervously helps Brienne sort through Lysa’s desk. They find no mention of any further connection to the Lannisters. Jaime is content to be left out of it. At least until the Hand returns to the tower in the afternoon and summons Jaime to his chamber. 

Fear grips him and only an ingrained sense of pride keeps him putting one foot before the other as he climbs the stairs. Without a sword and the white cloak, he is bereft of all that used to shield him. His father would count those things as lesser to being a Lannister. 

_ The Hand is a sheep, maybe more powerful than the others, but one, nevertheless_, he can hear the words in his father’s voice, but they’ve never felt less like the truth.

He has no idea what Jon Arryn is going to say to him, only that his only bargaining piece is his part in saving the man’s life. Ned Stark, for all his insufferable traits, wouldn’t take credit for the whole of the deed.

Jon Arryn sits at his desk. Once, the man was probably an imposing figure. He’s tall, but his shoulders are sloped with age, and his remaining gray hair looks brittle. Visually, he has nothing on Tywin Lannister, who reduces people with a simple _ look_.

Jaime has never been afraid of his father in the same way he fears the Hand of the King in this moment.

“Your name was not one I expected Ned to utter when I inquired as to who assisted in the arrest of Littlefinger.”

Jaime shrugs, “I do so hate to be predictable.”

“Your attitude might be your downfall, one day.”

“It’s served me well enough thus far.” What Jaime _ should _do is bow and beg for the Hand’s mercy, but even in this perilous moment, he can’t bring himself to. 

“There’s never been any affection between Lysa and I,” Lord Arryn looks up, meeting Jaime’s eyes. “She’s always been envious of Catelyn, and to be wed to _ me_, an old man even then. I’ve tried to do right by her.”

“Would that it were so simple.” He’d given Cersei everything that was in his power to give, even things that were foolish and shortsighted and hurt himself, only to end up _ here_.

“How would you punish her?”

Jaime tries not to look surprised at the question. “Exile, perhaps? Or return her to her father? Execution seems too grisly for a highborn lady.” Lysa’s head on a pike overlooking the city wouldn’t send a good message. “She was Littlefinger’s pawn.”

“And what should I do with _ you _ and the queen?”

There’s no armor to protect from _ that _ question, no glib response or Lannister threat to deflect. “You’re within your right to exercise whatever punishment you see fit.”

“It’s treason.”

“It is,” Jaime answers, “and I let myself be complicit in it. The first time I told my sister _ no _ was when she wanted to kill you for unearthing the secret.”

“So many parties want my death,” he replies, “Why did you tell her not to? It would be your benefit.”

Is he making a _ joke_? Lord Arryn was formative to both Ned _ and _ Robert, and Jaime never figured out what kind of person that makes him.

“You’re good for the realm; Robert is a drunken idiot and a shit king.”

”Another unexpected statement from a Lannister.”

“How did you figure it out? No one else has,” Jaime asks. “Cersei thought we were very clever.”

Lord Arryn lifts a finger and points at the golden hair on Jaime’s head, They’re almost a better indicator of his lineage than his name. “All Baratheons have dark hair and dark eyes. Robert’s heirs should have the same, but they’re _ all _lions.”

He should have said goodbye to Brienne and Tyrion, and even to his children, before coming here. Brienne’s somewhere below him, probably still sorting through papers with Ned Stark. She would have been mortified, to be kissed in front of Ned, but Jaime should have done it, regardless. The Hand could, and _ should_, have him tossed into the black cells with Littlefinger. _ Both _ of them have committed treason.

“What will you do with me?” Jaime blurts. _ Whatever it is, tell me and be done with it_.

“Robert is a good man, but a poor king; Joffrey will be worse. He cannot ascend.”

He has the gall to laugh, and hates himself for it. “Joffrey will be a cruel king.”

“If Lysa’s letter to her sister had been found, and I’d been killed, _ your _ family would have been blamed, but your secret would have gone to the grave with me.”

“Until someone else followed your logic.” Jaime sits, ungracefully, in the chair in front of the desk.

To Jaime’s surprise, Lord Arryn smiles, “You helped protect me at potential cost to yourself and your house. For that, I owe you a debt. That doesn’t change that you are at a disadvantage here.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of my disadvantage. I hoped my hand in saving you would grant me your clemency.”

“It does,” he answers, leaning forward on the desk, “but your children cannot rule the Seven Kingdoms. Robert has told me your father’s suggestion; although, I assume it originates from you.”

Jaime nods, “Will you tell Robert the truth?”

“No, but should he die, suspiciously or from his own folly, I will reveal it.”

“It seems more likely that _ you _ should die first.”

“Highly likely,” he answers, “Should that comes to pass, _ you _ will reveal the secret yourself.”

Jaime balks at the notion of being commanded. "Are you _ blackmailing _ me? _ You_, who produced the likes of Ned Stark?"

"I'm telling you the way to save yourself."

And maybe Jaime _ is _ more Tywin Lannister's son than he thought he was--at this moment, he's trying to devise a way to outsmart the man across the desk from him. He'd entered the room willing to prostrate himself.

"You're not Twyin Lannister," Lord Arryn continues when he's greeted with Jaime's silence. "Which means you'll see the offer for what it is: the best you're going to get."

"What do I care who sits in that cursed chair?"

Lord Arryn's smile is wry, "You care some, or you wouldn't have slain Aerys."

"That's when I _ stopped _ caring. A man can't be a good man and sit on that fucking throne."

Jaime isn't even a good man, and he knows that.

The Hand is _ looking _ at him like he's sees through all his finely-crafted bullshit. "Power changes men."

"We'll see if the change can be positive," Jaime straightens up in the chair, sits how his father would want a lord to sit. "I'll claim them, and bring Joffrey to Casterly Rock when the time comes. You have my word, tainted as it is."

_ I'll even welcome my wretched sister, if needed. _ Hopefully, Brienne kindness will carry her that far. 

"I do believe you. I'd say we're even, but if I was dead, I'd have no worries."

"So, I owe _ you_," Jaime knows where _ this _ is going; he wants to put his head on the desk.

"A Lannister always pays his debts."

"Your house words."

"Informally." Jaime daydreams, again, of taking Brienne's name and running away to Tarth. "Who will you put on the throne? My sister mentioned you were looking for Robert's many bastards."

"Ideally, the queen would give Robert a son of his own."

“She won’t.” And, honestly, Jaime wants her to keep that power.

“I thought as much. There’s a lad who worked as a blacksmith in Flea Bottom named Gendry. He’s in the knight academy, now, a squire for Ser Beric Dondarrion. _ He’s _ Robert’s eldest bastard.”

“You’d drag a bastard blacksmith from Flea Bottom, who dreams of being a knight, and _ certainly _ doesn’t even know his parentage, to the Iron Throne?”

“Your sister would let a bastard, a product of _ incest_, ascend the throne.”

_ A fair point_.

“Better than a Targaryen, I suppose.”

“We can agree on that, at least.”

“Write this down, seal it, and will it to me,” Jaime suggests, “If I’m going to out my sins to the world, deligitimize Joffrey, and raise this Gendry to the throne over Stannis _ and _Renly, I’ll want to be believed.”

“It _ still _might lead to war.”

“Then I pledge the forces of Casterly Rock to the cause, should it come to that.”

“You’ll be honor-bound to support Gendry’s claim, should I be the one to reveal it.”

Brienne’s disappointment would be more than Jaime could bear should he _ not _ fulfill his part of this pact, either way. “You have my word.”

Jaime’s heartened to think that he will be far away from King’s Landing by the time any of that comes to pass.

* * *

Brienne has never struggled to write a letter to her father, but the crumpled pile of parchment littering the floor shows that there’s a first time for everything.

“I should do this,” Jaime says from behind her, somewhere over her left shoulder. “I mean, shouldn’t I? You’re the _ heir _; etiquette dictates I ask your father for your hand.”

“My father is likely to reply telling you to ask _ me_, and then we’ve wasted a raven and quite a bit of time.”

Jaime pauses in his pacing, “If I write it, the letter will look like a schoolboy composed it.”

“Practice, like with the sword.”

“A much less enjoyable practice.”

Her hand stills over the parchment; an errant splotch of ink drips onto the page. She’s tried informing and asking, in varying degrees of politeness. “Does my father intimidate you?”

“No!” Jaime answers too quickly for Brienne to believe him. “...Have you _ seen _ him?”

“Of course I’ve _ seen _ him; he’s my father.”

“Wench, he’s _ huge_. If I slighted you, he could snap me in half like a twig.”

“He’ll trust my judgement,” Brienne answers, turning in the chair, “He’s _ met _you. You dined with him at Evenfall for a month.”

“He saw you _ cut my food _ for me,” Jaime looks a bit embarrassed. “Oh, gods, he’ll never respect me.”

“He also let you sleep in my chambers,” Brienne counters, “You respect me, so he will respect you.”

Jaime chuckles, “I _ think _ I show my respect for you in a way most fathers would disapprove of.”

Damn her easy embarrassment, even after all this time. “I think Father feels..._ bad _ about the other suitors.”

“And so he should; they were unworthy; although, I am as well.”

“Tarth is a small house; a Lannister is more than the heir to the Evenstar could _ ever _ expect.” 

“In name, if not in deed.”

Brienne turns back to the parchment, suddenly inspired. “Will this do?”

_ Ser Jaime has asked to wed me. I agreed. Please come to King’s Landing. _

Jaime reads the note over her shoulder. “Well, it gets the point across.”

* * *

Her pages react in varying ways, but all amount to being distressed at her leaving.

“Ew,” Arya says, “I’ll _ never _ get married; although, I suppose you _ could _do worse. The Kingslayer is alright.”

If only Lord Stark were present to hear what his youngest daughter is saying about Jaime Lannister.

Podrick looks devastated when he approaches her after lessons.

“You’re leaving, ser?”

Brienne puts a hand on Podrick’s shoulder. “In the summer, yes; although, I am sad to leave all of you.”

“I--” Podrick starts, and them clams up, “I’ve learned a lot from you, ser. Thank you.”

Brienne hasn’t informed Podrick of her plan to send for him, and, suddenly, she wants to bring him with them _ now_. Everyone in his short life had abandoned him, and Brienne doesn’t want to compound that. Jaime told her she treated Podrick like her child, and maybe it was true; she definitely feels a sense of responsibility to him.

“Pod, can you make it here for a few years more?” 

“I--what, ser?”

“My plan was to make you my squire,” Brienne explains, “and send for you when the time came.”

“Ser, I’m not ready--I’m _ bad_.”

"You’re not ready to be a squire, no,” she agrees, “but if you work hard, soon, you will be. I’ll make sure Arya looks after you until then.” Brienne cares more for Podrick’s spirit than his skill with a blade, anyway.

“Ser Jaime would let me?”

“He would.”

Then, Podrick _ hugs _ her, and Brienne hasn’t time to react before he pulls back with a blush that would rival hers at her most embarrassed. “S-ser, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t--”

Brienne ruffles his hair. “It’s fine.” 

“What’s Casterly Rock like?”

“It’s faces the Sunset Sea,” Brienne answers. “The largest city near it is Lannisport. That’s all I know.”

“I think Ser Jaime will be a good lord.”

“Much better than I will be a lady, I think.”

Podrick shakes his head, “I think you’ll be a fine lady, ser. You’re kind, and fair.”

Brienne eyes burn, and she stares at the blue sky above so Podrick won’t notice.

* * *

Cersei flying at him in a rage doesn't surprise Jaime; he'd been waiting for it since he'd spoken with their father. He'd only hoped that Brienne wouldn't be with him when she graced him with her presence. 

Well, Jaime had never felt terribly lucky, so it's only fitting that both Brienne and Podrick are with him when Cersei appears. She looks completely out of place in the dusty training yard; Jaime, viscerally, wants to push her as far away from the space as possible. 

_ I made this for myself, _he wants to tell his sister. It's the first and only thing in his life that isn't bound up in her, and he wants to safeguard it. Even his knighthood ended up wound around her.

"I won't fucking let you," she's not yelling, not yet--Cersei's fury starts silent; he's not in real trouble until she's screaming. "You can't take them away from me; they're _ mine. _"

"And mine," he answers, "and I'm not _ taking _them, I'm protecting them."

Cersei approaches him, regal bearing in every step; for all her instability, she is the queen. "That's no different," she says, low and threatening. "My children will be lost to me."

That tone, once, would have made Jaime want to fuck her. Cersei's anger was a frenzy, a frustration Jaime understood because it was mirrored in him. She would take it out on him, fists banging against his chest, or nails digging into his skin. He could absorb it because it was part of him.

Brienne is out of his line of sight; she probably has her hand on Podrick's shoulder. "Brienne, can you take Podrick? His fragile ears don't need to witness this."

They also _ don't _ need to come to proverbial blows over this in public. For all Cersei's prior discretion, it seems to have left her.

"Jaime," Brienne sounds wary, "Alright. Podrick, let's give them space."

Jaime stands between the two defining forces in his life--a before and an after. There's nothing his sister could offer that would draw him in; the cut is clean, like his swordhand had been. To find himself not tempted by her is sweet relief. 

"Is this _ her _ fault?" The object of Cersei's accusation is clear.

"Leave Brienne out of this."

"That seems remiss when you're fucking her," Cersei gets even quieter.

Jaime turns his head just in time to see Brienne pointlessly covering Podrick's ears. "I already know, sers," the boy answers.

Podrick's words incite a bout of near-hysterical laughter in him, which won't help Cersei's mood. 

Brienne moves to leave again, but Cersei interrupts, “No, stay; I want to hear the cow’s part in this.”

“Go on,” she says to Podrick, who seems all too content to run from the practice yard. Would that Jaime could take the boy’s place; although, Podrick would not fare well against Cersei.

“Let’s not make a scene,” Brienne says, ever practical, “unless you want the whole of King’s Landing to know this by the evening meal.”

Cersei glares, but the distance between the three of them decreases until they’re an uncomfortable triangle in the corner of the yard. Brienne has her arms crossed, a rock in the middle of whatever tempest Cersei is going to create.

“You’d wed _ her _ just to do what Father wants and steal my children?” Cersei gestures to Brienne, “You’d make this beast the Lady of Casterly Rock over _ me_?”

“Casterly Rock means nothing to me,” Brienne answers.

“It should,” Cersei says, “Compared to your backwater island, sworn to the Baratheons. You’re marrying up.”

“Released from my vows, the Rock is my birthright.” If someone told Jaime, even a year ago, that he’d be claiming the seat of his house by choice, he’d have laughed until he cried. “You know that none of them are safe here. What does Robert think of our machinations?”

“You and Father think yourselves clever. Robert only cares for his heir. The other two are tools. He thinks Dorne is a smart match, and that Tommen will never sit on the throne, regardless.” 

That Robert thinks Cersei a negative influence on her children is left unsaid, although Jaime assumes there’s truth to it.

“Amusingly enough, that’s how Father spoke of _ your _views on the children, sister.”

Brienne’s stony silence is broken by a sharp intake of breath; she thinks it was a misstep to say that to Cersei, and Jaime agrees. Gods, it was _ satisfying _ though.

“I _ love _ them,” Cersei hisses, and Jaime believes that she believes, “They’re _ mine_.”

“Love isn’t possession,” Brienne whispers. That was a lesson Cersei couldn’t be taught, and Brienne never needed to learn.

“You’re not Tommen’s mother,” Cersei’s tone is all challenge, but the assuredness of her victory is slipping as the pitch of her voice rises. “You _ never _ will be.”

“I’d never presume that,” Brienne is steady as she looks at his sister. “You are, and nothing can take that from you.”

“Is your whore always this self-righteous?”

“Don’t speak to her like that.” Brienne puts a hand on his arm and halts him. Jaime wishes, just once, that Brienne would let him defend her using what strength he does possess. Never with a blade, but with influence, at least. 

“And what happens if the Hand decides to cease being so benevolent? What happens to me, then, and to Joffrey?”

“Lord Arryn gave me his word that he would say nothing as long as Robert draws breath,” Jaime answers, “if you conspire to kill the king, though, he will unearth _ all _ of it.” Cersei doesn’t need to know of his promise to reveal the secret himself should the Hand die. Joffrey will never sit on the throne. 

“You let him _ blackmail _you?” Cersei sounds disgusted.

“No, I settled terms with him from a position of severe disadvantage.”

“Father would’ve--”

“Never done what we did,” he interjects.

Brienne has fallen silent against their dialogue, and Cersei turns her gaze back upon her. “And _ you_, what happens when Robert drinks himself into the grave, and our secret is revealed? Will you welcome your lord husband’s sister, his _ lover_, into your house?”

This was something they hadn’t yet discussed, so Jaime looks to her, tense. 

“It’s your home,” Brienne never lies, “It would be dishonorable not to welcome you or your kin back to it.”

Brienne’s kindness will be a bigger slight to Cersei than any actual discourtesy. His sister will see only pity in her words. To him, though, it’s just further testament to Brienne’s character.

“Remember that promise when I show up at your gate, seeking amnesty” Cersei sneers, “Remember that my brother and I were born together, were _ together _when you were still an ugly babe at your mother’s breast.”

Cersei leaves, then, skirts dragging along the dusty ground--the air seems lighter for her absence, and Jaime takes a deep breath. “She’s admitted defeat.”

“Not easily.”

“_Never _ easily. I’ve spoken these words before, but I _ am _ sorry about her.”

Brienne graces him with the barest hint of a smile, “Families are complicated, and we don’t get to choose them.”

“We can, a little bit, if we’re lucky.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You know," Arya replies, a satisfied smile on her face, "You're the first lady knight in Westeros, can't you do whatever you'd like?"_
> 
> _Brienne smiles along with Arya, "Perhaps you're right. Who's to say how two knights should be wed?"_
> 
> _"I'd wear Needle, and not a stupid dress," Arya touches the sword at her hip, "and wouldn't marry someone who'd stop me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life has been kicking my ass for the last couple weeks, but I'm baaaaack!
> 
> I am SO SAD there's only to chapters left of this. Reading all your comments and knowing that so many people are enjoying my writing is the best feeling ever. Thank you, as usual, for every review, kudos, and bookmark!

They make for a good story, as much discomfort as it brings Brienne. Jaime doesn’t notice, at least not in the way she does. He’s accustomed to attention, a hazard of his name and position. He seems pleased that people are gossiping about things _ other _than kingslaying and his relationship with Cersei.

“I feel like a spectacle,” she tells Jaime one morning.

“_Ser_,” he replies, “I’ve heard some snide remarks against _ both _of us, but there seems to be a population who thinks our union romantic and worthy of a song.”

“The Lion of Lannister and the Lady Knight?”

“The name is pleasing to the ear, I suppose,” Jaime sheathes his sword and takes her hand, “I propose ‘The Wench and the Kingslayer.”

Brienne laughs, hopelessly loud and unladylike, “I’m sure Tyrion knows a bard who can make it bawdy enough.”

A number of important events happen in rapid succession after that.

The first is that a raven arrives from Tarth. An errand boy knocks on Brienne’s chamber door and passes it to her. She puts a coin in his hand, thanks him, and closes the door behind her. Never before has she been afraid to read a letter from her father. It has the usual heft of his letters--one sheet of parchment, maybe two if he is feeling verbose. Brienne pulls the wax seal apart and unfolds the the letter.

_ Brienne, _

_ It’s about time. Inform Ser Jaime to expect a lecture upon my arrival. I’ll depart on a ship bound for King’s Landing in a sennight. _

_ Selwyn _

She reads the letter a second time, suddenly unsure why she was considered; her father’s response is _ perfectly _ in character. 

Jaime pales considerably at the mention of the lecture.

* * *

It’s Brienne’s turn to be nervous when Jaime’s father summons them both. He finds himself apologizing the entire walk there.

“He’ll try and measure your usefulness against how much of a pain in the ass he’ll assume you’ll be,” Jaime explains, “He won’t see _ you_, only the role he wants you to play in his obsession with furthering our dynasty.”

“To stay silent and give you sons, then?” Brienne scowls.

“The son part, yes. The silent part...I’m not certain. Aunt Genna told me that before we were born, he listened to our mother’s every word. It was only after Tyrion was born, and she died, that…”

Brienne nods and takes his hand, “Grief can change people, sometimes permanently.”

“He was never kind, but before, perhaps, he was less severe.”

“I’ll endeavor to make a good impression.”

“Your manners surpass mine on my best day,” Jaime squeezes her hand before leaning up to kiss Brienne soundly. They’re only steps from the door to Tywin’s rooms, and Jaime is pretty sure his father’s doorguard makes a dramatic coughing noise to break them apart.

“Jaime--” Brienne brings her hands to her cheeks.

“And you’ll learn, quickly, my lady, that while defying Tywin Lannister is enjoyable,” he whispers into her ear, “there’s no greater pleasure than letting him _ think _he’s winning.”

* * *

It’s fitting that the first nail in Petyr Baelish’s coffin is the testimony of a twelve-year-old girl. Arya’s no-nonsense rendition of the conversation she heard in the tunnels under the Keep sets the tone for the entire trial. To see a man like Littlefinger brought low by the youngest Stark daughter is justice.

Ned beams at her from the gallery while she speaks.

Surprisingly, Robert sits on the iron throne during the entire proceedings. Apparently, making the Hand of the King lead a trial where his own wife is a suspect is too much, even for Robert. Lord Arryn sits, silently, in the spectator stands, until he’s summoned to testify.

The procession of evidence from Lysa’s chamber bolsters Arya’s claims. They leave out her building scaling, and the unsent letter to Catelyn becomes something found when Lysa’s chambers were searched. If Lysa had the sense to burn all her correspondence, perhaps the outcome wouldn’t have been so cleanly decided.

Jaime testifies, once, telling King Robert and Ser Barristan of the night spend standing watch outside Lysa’s door.

Lysa, predictably, is all theatrics, blaming Lord Arryn for an unhappy and loveless marriage and Littlefinger for manipulating her. In exchange for amnesty, she sings like a bird, and ends up returned to Riverrun to be under the care of her father and brother. 

Robert decrees that Robin is to be sent to Storm's End as a ward. Lysa bursts into tears at that, and even Jaime is surprised to feel a pang of sympathy for the woman. Brienne must, too, because she grips his forearm tightly.

At the end of the third day, Robert stands up and declares, "I've heard enough of this shit. Throw the slime into the black cells until we can schedule an execution," and that's the end of the entire affair.

* * *

“I’m happy to see you, daughter, but _ I hate _ this city.”

The docks are busy--sailors unloading their ships and gulls squawking. Her father hugs her, and Brienne childishly rests her head against his shoulder; he’s the only person she knows who’s taller than her. It’s not much, now that she’s grown, but it’s enough to transport her back a decade.

“Thank you for coming,” she mumbles into his shoulder. His doublet is sapphire, and his cloak is akin to the one hanging in her room, trimmed in rose. On Tarth, he might not bother with the heraldry, but here, in King’s Landing, her father is the Evenstar. Tarth is small, and not terribly advantageous, but when her father smiles down at her, Brienne couldn’t be more proud of her house.

“You’re my only daughter. What kind of father would I be if I missed your wedding?”

Brienne embraces him again, just in time to hear Tyrion say, “You were right, Lord Selwyn _ is _a giant.”

Jaime laughs behind her, “I _ told _you he was tall.”

Her father is looking past her, probably at Jaime and Tyrion; it gives Brienne a moment to survey her father without him noticing. He looks grayer than when she last saw him months ago, but no less hale. His hands are still on her shoulders when her looks back to her.

“So,” her father whispers, “Jaime Lannister?”

“Father, I--”

“Is he worthy of you?”

“He’s the most honorable man I’ve ever met."

“Like a knight from one of the stories I used to read while you sat on my knee?”

“No,” she shakes her head, “like a real person. Knights in stories never have to make hard choices.” They save princesses, and win glory on the battlefield, and nothing is _ ever _ ambiguous. 

“You’ve always been _ very _principled,” her father replies. “Do you love him?”

“..._Yes_,” the word comes out in a rush--no one has asked Brienne that question yet, and to answer it aloud fills her with a giddy certainty. 

Her father brushes a wispy strand of hair off her forehead and leans down to kiss her. “_Good_. That’s all I longed to hear.”

* * *

“You _ could _ stack three of me atop the other and not reach Lord Selwyn’s height.”

Tyrion speaks, and Jaime laughs. Brienne picks up on it, growing louder from where she’s talking with her father in hushed tones.

“It’s the sea air,” Lord Selwyn explains, dropping his hands from Brienne’s shoulders and striding across the dock to Tyrion and Jaime. “Or so people say.”

_ Gods_, he really does dwarf all of them, and Jaime isn’t even a short man. He’d been in awe of Lord Selwyn’s stature before, but now he feels intimidated. 

“The effect must be something singular to the waters off Tarth. If the Sunset Sea had such effects, surely I’d be taller,” Tyrion jests, reaching his arm up to shake Lord Selwyn’s hand. “I’m Tyrion Lannister, my lord, Jaime’s _ much _ smaller brother.”

“We’re not _ all _ this tall--” Brienne says.

Lord Selwyn is all smiles, but his brother’s easy rapport is more genuine than Jaime’s own, “My daughter mentioned you in her letters.”

“Hopefully good things.”

Some of Jaime’s nerves dissipate at remembering Lord Selwyn’s congenial nature. Jaime holds out his left hand, more useful for greeting than the golden one, “Welcome to King’s Landing, Lord Selwyn.”

“I was looking forward to seeing you again; you’re to be my son.”

Nevermind--the nerves are back, manifesting this time as a sizeable lump in his throat. Jaime, for once, _ can’t _ think of anything to say, beneficial or witty. Tyrion claps him on the back, as high as he can reach.

“Jaime’s _ obsessed _ with Ser Brienne.”

Lord Selwyn and Brienne raise their eyebrows, identical gestures.

"_Obsessed_," Tyrion repeats, holding out his hands for some sort of emphasis.

"Tyrion--" Brienne jumps in.

An evening some weeks ago enters Jaime's mind. Tyrion plied him with wine until he was deep enough in his cups that he started _ talking _ when questioned. Brienne was the focus of these questions, and while he doesn't remember _ all _ of his overly-loquacious responses, words like _ strong_, _ singular_, and _ transcendental _ come to memory.

_ Please, please don't_. He wills Tyrion to read his thoughts. Tyrion smirks at him, which oddly makes Jaime _ less _ worried about whatever is going to come out of his mouth next.

"As I told our father," his brother says, "_ totally _ smitten, in only the most _ respectful _ of ways."

"I'm going to punt you into the bay," he whispers to Tyrion when they start walking.

"_Please_, end my misery," Tyrion replies.

Mortification aside, the docks of King's Landing are not the place to have any prolonged conversation. Jaime is glad when the party starts working their way to the Red Keep. As last time, the contrast between Brienne's father and his own stands out to him. He hadn't chartered his own ship, and his retinue consists of only two servants. When Tywin Lannister enters King's Landing, he wants every man, woman, and child to know he's gracing the capital with his presence.

* * *

Brienne hugs her father again when they reach his rooms. "Dinner?" she asks.

"Of course," Lord Selwyn replies before looking at Jaime. "Ser Jaime, can I speak with you?"

It's a request, but it isn't, and he wants the approval of Brienne's father more than he's _ ever _ desired the approval of his own. 

"Certainly."

Brienne touches his arm as she exits the room with Tyrion. When they're alone, Lord Selwyn crosses the room, and Jaime tries_ not _ to assume he's being intentionally intimidating. The _ unintentional _effect was more than enough.

"Did Brienne tell you to expect a lecture?" 

"She did."

“Good,” he responds, "You'll forgive me some fatherly intimidation.”

“I’ve been on the receiving end of _ many _ a fatherly intimidation lectures.” It’s easier, for Jaime to be glib than to approach Lord Selwyn earnestly. “Tywin Lannister starts those before his children can walk.”

Lord Selwyn answers him with a booming laugh. “I’ve never met Lord Tywin, but that fits with how I’ve heard him described.”

“You’re missing nothing of note; although, I suppose you’ll meet him soon enough.”

“The merging of our houses.”

Jaime gulps, and the willpower to keep his facade falters. “I’ve been considering, since your letter, what to say to you. The things I’m _ supposed _to promise to Brienne aren’t the things she needs.”

“Your protection?” he guesses. “Your name, your title, and your holdings?”

“Brienne’s your heir, and has earned her knighthood,” Jaime holds up the golden hand, still heavy against his wrist after all these months. “I’ve a _ lot _ of gold, and a tainted knighthood. You know what I lost on Tarth, and probably what I gained as well.”

“Brienne’s regard, and her respect,” Lord Selwyn answers. “They’re not virtues my daughter gives freely.”

“I know.” They feel unearned, and he wonders if they _ always _ will.

“What do you think Brienne needs, then?”

“Acceptance,” Jaime answers immediately, “Fidelity. She’s _ singular_, and deserves to be as she wishes to be.” 

“And you’ll afford her the freedom to be herself?”

The conviction Lord Selwyn’s question creates in him almost overwhelms Jaime with its intensity. “I love her, and she can run me through with her sword if she ever feels curtailed by me.”

Lord Selwyn laughs, and some unspoken tension dissipates. “Good. I’ll welcome you, then, into my family. I promised myself I’d trust Brienne’s judgment and never choose for her again.”

“She told me about the others.”

“Those were unworthy, foolish choices,” he shakes his head. “When she wanted to take up a sword, I saw her path before her.”

Jaime can’t imagine _ his _father admitting make a mistake--the path he wanted for his children was immutable. 

“You’re not like most fathers.”

“I let my desire for an heir cloud my judgment.”

“You let me share her chambers when we were on Tarth,” Jaime blurts. “I’ve wondered, ever since, _ why _ you’d permit that.”

A punch from Lord Selwyn would _ hurt_, but Jaime _ really _wants an answer to his permissiveness.

“Brienne favored you, even then,” he answers, shrugging, “I promised I wouldn’t choose for her, but I thought I could overlook it if it helped things along”

“That’s..._ inappropriate_, but it was formative.” That moment, when he’d awoken in such blinding _ pain_, and Brienne caught him when he crumbled and held him together. “I would’ve given up without her.”

“I told you to accept her care if she found you worthy of it. Do you feel you’ve dishonored her with your conduct?”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Jaime answers. “I suppose that answer depends on who you asked, though.”

“Would I be remiss in assuming a bedding ceremony _ isn’t _needed?”

Jaime freezes. Is Lord Selwyn Tarth _ really _ asking if Brienne was no longer a maiden? He’s stunned to silence and has the good sense to look admonished, which is not an expression Jaime is used to wearing. He stares at his boots.

“It wasn’t capricious, regardless of what the impression of me may be.” Jaime isn’t craven, so he looks up. “I won’t apologize, and I wouldn’t embarrass her with a bedding ceremony, regardless.”

“_Good_. And she’s not with child?”

“That I would _ never _allow to happen,” he answers. “Not that Brienne was in any disagreement.”

And, if Lord Sewlyn wonders _ why _Jaime answers with such vehemence, he doesn’t inquire.

* * *

“All of this pomp seems _ stupid_,” Arya tells Brienne a few mornings after Brienne’s father arrives. “In the North, people swear their vows in the Godswood. No one else even needs to _ be _ there.”

"That sounds _ nice_," she tells Arya, "if only we could somehow get away with that."

No walking the impossible length of the aisle in the Sept of Baelor. No Tywin Lannister exercising his authority through the opulence of the ceremony. No more gently refusing the dressmaker he _ definitely _ sent to her. 

"You know," Arya replies, a satisfied smile on her face, "You're the first lady knight in Westeros, can't you do whatever you'd like?"

Brienne smiles along with Arya, "Perhaps you're right. Who's to say how two knights should be wed?"

"I'd wear Needle, and not a stupid _ dress_," Arya touches the sword at her hip, "and wouldn't marry someone who'd stop me."

And _ that's _ how Brienne ends up doing just that.

* * *

The last time Jaime imagined his _ own _ wedding was over half his life ago--childish daydreams of marrying Cersei. If the Targaryens wedded sibling to sibling, why should the Lannisters be any different? 

No, the only significant wedding that came to fruition in his life was his sister’s. It was in the Sept of Baelor, on a spring day not much different from this one. Jaime sat in the first row, next to Tyrion and his Aunt Genna, and watched his father walk Cersei down the aisle to where Robert Baratheon waited. Jaime had been with her, not two hours before, and Cersei graced him with an almost imperceptible glance. Between them, though, it had been an entire conversation.

If she wouldn’t wed him, _ couldn’t _ wed him, then this was the next best thing.

Today, though, Jaime’s the one waiting on the altar, not Robert, and Cersei is seated in the front row, next to the king. She’s a crimson and gold blur in Jaime’s periphery, and he keeps his eyes trained on the furthest entrance of the sept.

Then, the doors are pushed wide, and it’s _ Brienne_, on Lord Selwyn’s arm.

They’d kept her from him--Jaime had kissed her yesterday after midday, a rushed encounter at her door. He knows what Brienne _ should _ be wearing. Only, when had either of them _ ever _ been about meeting the expectations of others?

Jaime’s definitely grinning like a fucking fool; he also feels like he’s sweating uncontrollably under the heavy velvet of his cloak and doublet. Has the sept always been this stuffy? His father trussed him up in enough red and gold to choke him; Tywin’s the real fool, though, for all the satisfied smirk he’s wearing from the seat, because all Jaime can see is _ blue_.

* * *

“You’ll be nervous,” Jaime whispered to her the previous day, “so ignore everyone else, and just watch _ me_. I’m sure I’ll provide enough entertaining facial expressions to assuage _ some _of your apprehension.”

“It’s not _ you,_” she answered, “it’s the attention.”

He’d kissed her with an aching slowness and held her face in his left hand. “We’ll be the only people in the room.”

There’s enough pairs of eyes on Brienne that she feels paralyzed. Her father walks forward, ever a pillar of strength, and Brienne lets him guide her. There’s some twittering--probably over the fact she _ isn’t _ wearing a dress. They’d be just as much twittering if she _ had _ let the dressmaker put her ivory lace and silk.

Nothing made her look _ less _ feminine than intentionally _ trying _ to look feminine.

So, Brienne went with blue, a longer and finer tunic than she’d usually wear. Her cloak is too-heavy on her shoulders in the warm sept--a finer one her father had brought for her, azure and trimmed in rose with Tarth’s sun and moon. She let Sansa braid her hair, and both Stark girls surveyed her and said, “You look like a knight, ser.” 

_ Good_, she thought, _ I’ll look like what I am_.

“Just walk,” her father whispers.

“I _ am_,” she snaps back, and he chuckles.

Watching Jaime _ does _ calm her, though--he’s beaming at her, and she half-expects him to run down the steps. Never in her life did Brienne expect to see a man looking so happy to see _ her _ striding towards him.

“You still intend to keep your cloak?” her father whispers when he kisses her on the cheek at the steps of the altar. “You’re going to give the poor septon a fit.”

Brienne can’t form words, so she nods. A look of mild panic _ does _ cross the septon’s face when she climbs the steps. They should have said something, _ before_, probably, but Jaime looks like he’s enjoying the hell out of himself at the septon’s confusion.

“Ser,” the septon says, voice low, and they _ both _ look.

“My lady keeps her cloak.”

Her father laughs.

The septon clears his throat. “_Highly _irregular, but proceeding.”

Brienne takes Jaime’s hands, one golden and one flesh, into her own when the septon commands her to. The false hand feels impersonal to her now--so used as she is to curling her fingers over the bare scar tissue. Removing it here is impractical, so she slides her fingers under the cuff of his sleeve.

Jaime’s still startlingly, immutably handsome--finery makes her stand out uncomfortably, highlights her plainness, but the gilding becomes him. She wants to hold him and wrap him in the colors of _ her _house.

“He’ll make a _ lovely _ bride,” Tyrion joked.

There’s vows--she repeats what the septon tells her, although if asked later, she couldn’t recall what she said. Jaime mirrors her, but her focus is on the way his left hand grips her right.

The words “lady and wife” are barely past Jaime’s lips when he kisses her, up on his balls of his feet to match her height. The septon’s jaw must hit the floor, and anything else the man had to say dies. Jaime’s kissing her like he always does--a blush scalds across Brienne's cheeks; this is _ not _ a wedding ceremony kiss. It’s heady, and _ thorough_, and her father is _ right there_.

The septon coughs, and Jaime _ laughs_. He rests his forehead against her shoulder long enough to catch his breath.

“You’re making a _ scene_,” she whispers.

“Who cares?” The giddy grin is back when Jaime looks at her. “_Sheep_, remember?”

“We shan’t be concerned about whether they’ll consummate it,” Tyrion calls from his seat.

* * *

The feast passes in a blur. 

It’s a Tywin Lannister production, more food than anyone can rightly eat, just so every guest knows he _ can_. Jaime eats what’s put in front of him, from the hard cheese, to the Dornish figs, to the white fish stewed in wine. Only once does Brienne have to steady his plate, and the warmth of her smile as she does it goes straight to his cock.

So, he drinks wine to distract himself from the fact that every minute of this feast is a labor meant to keep him from fucking her. Brienne drinks mead, and Jaime sees the moment when it starts to affect her--her eyes are brighter, and she loses some of her reticence. She chats with Tyrion and her father, and blushes spectacularly at everyone who comes to congratulate them or offer _ suggestions _ for their marriage bed.

Jaime doesn’t need suggestions, though, what he needs is for everyone to _ go the fuck away_.

“This is _ torture_,” he whispers when there’s some pointless fruit course before what Jaime assumes should be dessert.

He must have imbibed enough to affect his volume because Tyrion answers instead of Brienne. “Father wants heirs for the Rock, but only _ after _ he’s tortured you into a frenzy with a twelve-course meal.”

“The food is delicious, though,” his ever-polite bride answers. “I know it’s meant as a display of power, but--”

“--We can all reap the benefits of the hedonism of it,” Tyrion finishes, holding up his wine.

Jaime touches Brienne’s knee--it’s _ nothing_, but it’s something. He doesn’t care about the lemoncakes that appear in front of him, although Sansa claps her hands together in glee half a table away. Brienne eats hers slowly, and Jaime doesn’t touch his because it would require removing his hand from her knee, and he _ needs _ that contact because the room is tilting on its axis.

“Try it,” she tells him, and a second passes before she realizes why he hasn’t. Then, Brienne holds out a bite to him from her fork and Jaime takes what is offered. The flavor is sweet and bright on his tongue, and Jaime finds himself agreeing with Sansa about the status of lemoncakes as a dessert. He’ll remember Brienne, her hair spilling out of it’s braid and blushing in the lamplight until his dying day; he dares the fucking gods to take the moment from him.

“I think we should recuse ourselves,” Jaime blurts when he can’t handle the way Brienne covers his hand with her own under the table, and there’s no cake left to eat. “There’s a marriage bed to warm, or some such thing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is, um, irredeemable wedding night filth. Like I am nearly embarrassed to post it. Objectively, it's probably not that bad, but I am wimp ahahahaha.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You lack subtlety," Brienne says when they reach his door; he clasped her hand the entire walk._
> 
> _"The bigger commotion the better." Jaime closes the chamber door behind them and kisses her--the briefest contact, then dances away. "We should upend the room, just so there's gossip."_
> 
> _"Jaime."_
> 
> _He picks up a red and gold brocade pillow off a chair and tosses it to the ground. "Let them think my lady wife, my knight, threw me onto the bed and had her way with me. Ravished me, even."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOOOOOOOOBOY.
> 
> As promised, here is the wedding night filth! My beta told me I'd nailed it, so I will trust her judgement. If you don't enjoy Brienne topping (albeit softly and romantically), this chapter might not be for you. I think pegging is in their future lol.
> 
> If this is not your cup of tea, this chapter can be skipped without creating any plot confusion!
> 
> If it IS your cup of tea, I hope you enjoy it!

"You lack subtlety," Brienne says when they reach his door; he clasped her hand the entire walk.

"The bigger commotion the better." Jaime closes the chamber door behind them and kisses her--the briefest contact, then dances away. "We should upend the room, just so there's gossip."

"_Jaime. _"

He picks up a red and gold brocade pillow off a chair and tosses it to the ground. "Let them think my lady wife, my _ knight_, threw me onto the bed and had her way with me. _ Ravished _ me, even."

She can’t even claim the idea doesn’t interest her. "That's a perfectly innocent pillow--"

"_Nothing _ Tywin Lannister placed in this room is innocent." Jaime chooses another pillow as his second victim, sending it flying. "Every fucking thing is an intentional reminder."

"For you, or for me?"

"For _us--_to make sure you know what you’ve wed into.” Some baubles hit the ground--an inkwell that gratefully doesn’t crack, a golden lion figurine, a heavy goblet. Jaime reminds her of a more of a cat than a lion, knocking things down to watch them fall.

"They’re just trinkets.”

“Fuck this cloak, and fuck my house.” He stands in the middle of the room, still wearing the offending garment, and fumbles with the clasp until red and gold pool onto the floor. “_ There_.”

“Liberating?”’

“_Yes_,” he answers, satisfied. “Now, does my lady come to claim me?"

The mead _ might _ play some part in her reaction, or the release of the tension of the day, but Brienne starts laughing. The vows aren’t right, and _ he _ shouldn’t even being saying them. Some gods, old _ or _ new, are either laughing with them, or smiting them, for their jest. Jaime makes a very smug-looking maiden, standing there in waiting.

“Ser Brienne of Tarth comes to claim you," she answers, making a pointless effort to keep her expression serious as she walks to him. “If you’ll have her.”

"Gladly, ser.”

He traces the rose lining of her cloak with his left hand upward until he finds the clasp. It would be faster to accomplish the task herself, but she lets Jaime. Divested of it, Brienne catches the fabric as it falls into her hands. It's too fine for her, she'd thought the same when her father had put it over her shoulders hours ago.

Nevertheless, Brienne clutches at it, asserts it for herself; no one else will decide what's meant for her any longer.

Brienne shakes the cloak, once, before sweeping it across Jaime's shoulders. The blue becomes him, as she imagines _ anything _ would, damn him, but the rose lining clashes _ horribly _ with the crimson of the rest of his clothes. 

It's _ still _the most pleasant sight Brienne's ever beheld. 

Jaime looks down, "It's quite fetching. Mayhaps I'll wear it to breakfast."

"Your father will lose his wits if you leave this room looking like that." She lets her hands linger on his shoulders, just because she _ can_.

"_Good_." 

“You like provoking his ire.” She thinks of Tywin’s expression in the crowd. “I could practically hear him grinding his teeth the entire ceremony.”

“I swear his fucking jaw _ creaked _when you left your cloak on."

“He looked none-too-pleased while we were feasting, either.”

“I looked foolish, fawning over you as you fed me cake.” Jaime’s smirk says he’d welcome the commentary. “He’ll ask me, tomorrow, why I let you emasculate me.”

Such rigid paradigms--a lady does _ this_, and a lord does _ that_. The husband wields the sword and the power, and the wife is meant to be _ soft _ and compliant. “How would you answer him?”

"I'd tell him his definition is _pitifully_ limited, and that he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s on about.” He cups her cheek, fingers tangling in the errant hair around her face. 

Jaime crashes his mouth against hers; he tastes like lemon cakes and red wine. He kisses her like he can't contain himself, nearly cracking their heads together in his haste. Brienne puts her hands on his cheeks to attempt to imbue the encounter with some semblance of order, but it’s folly when his mood is such.

“_Wife_," he whispers into her ear. 

From there, it wouldn't take a skilled tracker to retrace their path to the bed--a table askew from her kicking the leg as she stumbles from the force of Jaime's ingress, a pewter jug filled with water that slops over the side onto a tapestry when he bumps against it, a scatter of papers from the desk where the hem of her cloak drags across. 

A lord, a _ knight_, would know how to carry his lady to the marriage bed. The lady would blush and the lord would, if he was kind, coax her with gentle words. All two knights manage is the messy tangle of Jaime’s arms around her neck, tripping one another on the cloak until Brienne unceremoniously drops him on the bed like a sack of grain.

“_Ah_, deposited the marriage bed at last,” Jaime smoothes her cloak out with his left hand against the linens before looking up at her. “Our duty beckons.”

Brienne _ knows _ duty, though--duty is being her father’s only daughter, it’s swearing vows, in marriage, in knighthood. Nothing about Jaime looking up at her, patient, _ expectant_, is duty. She's possessive of him, has been ever since she first daydreamed of him wearing the colors of her house. The actuality of seeing it hadn’t helped matters.

She leans over him on the bed, hand resting near his. She drags her fingers through his hair, admires the golden waves of it, and Jaime leans into her. The room is drowning in Lannister frippery, and Lord Twyin would certainly be disappointed to learn it isn’t having the effect he intended. The more there is, the less it matters; it only makes her want to be stripped down until there’s nothing between them.

“It’s not a duty,” she corrects, “It’s a _ gift_. I love you.”

* * *

Jaime doesn’t _ need _ the words from her. Tonight, though, after he’d sworn himself to her, let her cloak him and claim him, the words are what Jaime _ wants_, and of course Brienne knows.

“_Never _ a duty,” he agrees, “Although, if all my duties where this pleasurable…”

His poor, already exasperated wife rolls her eyes, “Society would crumble if people did nothing but bed each other all day.”

"A fine way to spend the end of times." He fucking sounds like Tyrion; his brother would be proud.

They have a _ routine _ now, and no one will ever hasten them through it again. Every bed they’re in is _ theirs_, and Jaime has the power to command everyone away. Brienne unfastens her cloak from around his shoulders, and Jaime shakes his head when she goes to put it aside. 

She’s going to fuck him on that cloak; she just doesn’t know it yet. And it will be _ good_.

There’s no impatience from her at his one-handed slowness. Jaime's not _ trying _ to be coy, but maybe it’s an unintended side effect. She graces him with a small smile when he unlaces her boots one-handed, and she kicks them off. There’s nothing systematic about his approach, Sansa’s braid is demolished, then he aggressively tugs at the fine blue fabric of her tunic until she sighs and helps him.

Brienne’s left in a sleeveless shift, and she’s blushing like it’s the first fucking time. Jaime leans down and kisses her shoulder, maps the pattern of her freckles. 

“How is there even a blush _ left _in you?”

“I--I don’t _ know_,” she answers, voice hitching when he bites the skin near her collarbone. 

“If someone came through that door, they _ might _ believe you’re a maiden.” Jaime's hand finds her breast through the thin fabric--there’s little need for her to wear anything under it. More to his benefit, regardless.

She’s grabbing her cloak now, fabric bunched in her lap where he’s not still sitting on it. The poor, poor cloak is going to see _ quite _ an evening. “Only until you ask me for something a maiden would _ never _ agree to!”

Jaime shrugs, “Some maiden _ might _ agree, but what good would she be?”

“She’d be more _ delicate_.”

“What need do I have of their delicacy? I married _ you_.”

No, Brienne has ruined anyone else for him.

Sometimes, she still disbelieves what he asks for. Jaime’s recourse is to become scaldingly, _ acutely _ explicit. He’ll get there tonight, maybe, but there’s unkissed skin, and Brienne inspires diligence. His mouth is near her elbow as he thinks of what to ask of her.

“She’d look _ prettier _ on your arm.” Brienne’s protest is half-hearted, “She wouldn’t be as strong, though.”

_ Ah, there's her pride. _

“_Useless, _ then.” Jaime whispers, tugging at his clothes, “I feel like a trussed up game hen--help me.”

Jaime likes letting her undress him--there’s nothing seductive it, unless she’s aroused by his feigned ineptitude. Her gestures radiate care, as she undoes ties and laces with her steady movements. She's divesting him of being a Lannister, and leaving just _ Jaime_, and nothing pleases him more.

"You _ enjoy _ making this hard."

The doublet goes, then his shirt. It gets snagged on the golden hand, which she removes, and when he's bare from the waist up, Brienne _ touches _him.

"It's making _ something _hard," he jests, as her fingers skitter over him. 

_ "Insufferable_. You make me want to nettle you."

She's gripping his shoulder, a pressure he welcomes. Brienne's questing, the path a fine one, but not where he desires _ most. _ She presses her mouth against his skin, confidence borne from routine, and he _ aches _for her.

"Nettle away." Jaime touches what he can reach, slides her shift over her head, finds all the exposed skin. Touching her makes her sigh, a fissure in her armor, and he’s always encouraged by it. 

"When do I stop?" A genuine question, and the real answer is _ never_. Brienne can deny him, keep him pulled taut, until he dies in her arms. 

"When you've had your fill; I'm ever at your command."

She _ likes _ it; he can see it in her expression, in her eyes that burn and soothe in turn. It's not _ just _ for him, and he would be a fool to deny Brienne her power. She tackles him, and then Jaime's looking up at her, familiar and _ his_.

"Mine," she proclaims.

"Yours," he agrees. 

Brienne's a little less measured when she removes the rest of his clothing. In turn, Jaime's a _ little _ less petulant, lifting his hips to assist her and flinging the pieces across the room. He's still on her cloak, although it's askew from their tumbling. He spreads it out as best he can.

Then, he's bare, and maybe Jaime isn't _ whole_, but he's _ hers_.

"My cloak," she comments, smoothing it out, hands on either side of his head, covering as much red as she can manage. Then, she's reaching between them, touching him.

"A prop," he gasps, "have you figured it out?"

"I...wondered if that was your aim."

"I've told you before, I'm completely transparent."

Jaime rests on his elbows so he can watch her undress, the strong efficiency in her movements spirals him higher and higher. He's happy to wait, to be her prize. She'll fuck him, surrounded by _ blue _\--like her eyes, like the water off the coast of Tarth, and Jaime will relish in the victory of it. 

"I...like it," she says, hesitant. Then, steadier, "Tell me. What's next?"

"Is that in my purview?" 

"_Answer_, or I'll do nothing." Perhaps an idle threat, perhaps not. Brienne's blushing and forceful simultaneously. She never used to tease him, but now she's using his tricks against him, stroking his cock while she does it.

"Brides don't _ request _ \--they're claimed. _ Taken_." Why can't he just play along? She's guiding him through a game, _ his _ game, to an end he wants. If he does, maybe she'll put her mouth on him, or, _ or--- _

"_I'm _the bride," she interrupts his thoughts, looms over him, fills his vision entirely. 

He catches her hand, tangles their fingers together. "You _ are _; although, I don't see why things need to be so prescribed." 

For all the times Brienne looks at him like he’s half-mad, Jaime’s desires are straightforward--he wants to be closer and _ closer _ to her. It's what he's wanted since before he even _ knew _ he did. Brienne's like nothing he’s experienced, so he seeks her out, in all her newness. A thought is planted in his mind, one indecent enough that he _ almost _kills before it grows. Brienne watches him as he brings her fingers up to his lips and kisses her knuckles.

"Wife, will you humor me?"

Brienne raises her eyebrows, “What have I _ been _doing?”

She’s right, though--she’s never refused him, and she plays along with all his games and detours.

The kiss is a courtly prelude to the very _ uncourtly _ gesture of taking two of her fingers into his mouth and sucking on them. He feels her sword calluses on his tongue, the same as he's felt her touch in so, so many places. Brienne's eyes widen, and her mouth hangs open slightly. She's trying to reason out where he's going, and Jaime realizes with delight that he's going to _ shock _her.

Brienne keeps her hand hovering between them when he moves away, and he takes her wrist, lest she does something foolish like wipe her hand dry. He can imagine her doing it, scowling and rubbing her fingers against the nearest fabric, undoing his good efforts because of the ambiguity of his intent.

“Fuck me.”

She stares at her hand.

“Fuck me, _ please_?”

“I..._ did _ ask you what’s next,” she’s flushed, and looking past him, which is a shame because he’s supposed to be her _ prize_. His half-spoken request hangs between them, and the thought of her _ inside _ him is dizzying, and he’s prepared to beg for something that only just entered his mind. 

“Brienne.”

"A-Alright," she nods, resolute, and brings her hand to his mouth again. “It might not--” she starts, and he takes her meaning. When her fingers are as wet as he can make them, she retreats. “I--I don’t know--”

“Me either. Just try it.” If it's bad, well, there's no harm.

And she _ does_, and he bends his knees to accommodate her, and it’s strange, but it’s _ good_. It’s another way to get the _ closer _he’s always seeking. Brienne’s gentle, guided by the same care she imbues everything with. Jaime means to watch her, but the tension overwhelms him, and he ends up staring at the ceiling. He can feel the embroidery on her cloak under his back, imagines being able to make out the suns and moons, but it’s nothing that distinct. Everything’s fuzzy and drawn out, narrowed down to a single point of contact. 

His thoughts scatter, and he ends up thinking, _ horribly, _ of what his lord father would say about his knightly wife _ fucking _ him with her fingers atop _ her _ cloak.

It probably _ wouldn’t _be “congratulations.”

That he welcomes the touch doesn’t surprise him--there’s no contact he _ wouldn’t _ welcome if it came from her. Brienne pace is slow, one that he would keep for her if their positions were reversed Then, she adds a second finger, _ exactly _when he would, and he moans, arches off the bed.

Brienne whispers _ something _ to him before kissing him, hand on his shoulder. “You’re fine,” she says, and he breathes, and he _ is_, if only because she wills it. “Should I stop?”

“No. ” He’s confident about _ that _ much--he wants the opposite of stopping. “_More_.”

Brienne pairs the gesture with other things, another kiss, a hand through his hair, lips pressed against his bare wrist, fingers gliding over his cock. She ends with his hand in hers, against the bed.

Jaime’s surprised when he comes, holding her hand tight enough that it _ must _ hurt. She shows no sign of discomfort--she’s just watching him, blushing, but steady. The force of it feels like a punch, like a wave, and he shouts Brienne’s name, curling away from her. 

The poor, _ poor _ cloak bears the burden of it, and he stares at _ that _ mess instead of looking at Brienne. “_Embarrassing_,” he throws his right wrist over his eyes to hide from her.

“Why?”

“I think,” he starts, still breathless, “the scene speaks for itself.”

She’s next to him, then, resting her chin on her hand. With the other, Brienne takes his wrist and pulls it away from his face, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Do you remember the first time you--” she stumbles, as she always does when she’s about to say something explicit, “the first time you put your m--”

Ah, he _ does_. “On your cunt,” Jaime finishes, “You nearly suffocated me with your thighs; you screamed, you _ begged _ for your release, and when it happened, I just _ kept going_.”

“_Yes_,” she answers, a breathy exclamation. She'll be embarrassed and aroused, in turn. He's gotten quite adept at creating _ that _ reaction. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know her expression, and he feels himself stirring again at the thought.

“It’s _ burned _ in my memory.”

“And it was _ mortifying_, but I didn’t know _ anything _could feel so--”

“_Good_.” Jaime opens his eyes, embarrassment waning, “Transcendental? _ Close_.” To be with her, as _ one_\--not a mirror because he made _ that _ mistake for most of his life, but as a _ complement_.

“Close," Brienne echoes, "Close is _ good_."

As usual, his lady has the right of it. "What would your septa say about _ this_?"

"If we resurrected her from the dead, she’d die again from _ shock_.”

Her cheeks are flushed, she’s biting her lip, and she's still holding his wrist. The feeling is muted under the scarring, but it's _ her_. Did watching him make her wet? Would she _ shift_, seeking friction, seeking _ him_? Shamefully, Jaime wonders if he’s been selfish. It's easier, too, turning her desires back on her. 

“If I reached between your thighs, right now, what would I find? Is your cunt wet? You _ never _share.”

“I like when you’re happy,” she answers, “Anything to that end, if I can do it, I will.”

Cersei would have reveled in his submission, derived power from it and use it to reduce him. She’d spent _ years_, building herself up by pushing him down. Brienne’s not thinking about power, for all that she has over him--no, it’s his fucking _ happiness _ that concerns her. 

“_Wife_,” he says, as though he can imbue the word with enough meaning to traverse the depth of his feelings. “Right now, what do you want?”

“I’d have you," she answers, another tender claiming, and tugs him _ and _ the cloak until both are atop her. Brienne rearranges them, lets him settle between her hips and press into her. A single, endearing sigh leaves her when they're together. 

“Wet,” he teases, “_dripping_, even. I barely touched you.”

“You’ve found the answer to your question, then.”

Jaime grins, “My wife _ likes _ my explicit requests. Ser Brienne _ likes _ holding me down and _ fucking_\--”

Making Brienne snap hasn’t lost its novelty, and he’s grinning when she kisses him with a hunger he’d more expect from himself. Then, he fucks her in earnest, meeting her at the end of each stroke. He’s even still grinning when, _ somehow_, she rights the cloak enough to fasten it. He finds himself unconcerned about the mess of it-- _ that _ will be a conversation starter for the washing women. He can call for a bath; he can call for _ whatever _he wants.

Brienne deserves all the _ more _ he can manage, and Jaime curses the lack of leverage that being one-handed creates. He wants to touch her, wants her to feel what he feels, wants to soar and fall in tandem with her, and his right arm is _ useless_. With some difficulty, and a small push from her, he manages to get on his knees, resting his stump against her bent leg.

“_Better_.” He reaches between them to touch her as he thrusts into her, “Catch me when I inevitably topple.” 

“Always.” Conscientious, even when he’s trying to drive her over the edge, Brienne closes her hand over his wrist near her knee. She arches into him, grabs the cloak with her other hand. 

"You _ like _ this," he tells her because he's many, many, things, and quiet isn't one of them. "You like it when I touch your cunt while I fuck you."

"_Yes_."

Unlike him, Brienne doesn’t babble when she’s close--if anything, impending release elevates her stoicism. To get her to yell, or ask, is a victory won only at the last possible moment. His efforts, a faster pace, earn him a "_Please_." She cries his name and reaches for him, and it’s well-earned bliss when she wraps herself around him and pulls him against her. 

It’s too soon to part from her, and if he can just muster himself--

“_Ugh_. I’m an old man,” he whispers into her hair, “but I’ll not have anyone calling me remiss on my duties in the morning. Forgive me for resting a moment.”

“We have _ all _night.”

“What should we do next, then?”

Jaime can hear the smile in her voice, “Perhaps...we owe my cloak an apology?”

* * *

Her throat feels like she swallowed a handful of sand, and her eyes aren’t faring much better--_ this _ is why she doesn’t drink. There’s breakfast sitting on a table; a tray piled with things that will keep--fruit, cheese, bread. At least three glasses of water sound better to her at the moment.

If there’s breakfast, that means that someone _ came into the room _ and _ saw _\--

Jaime, clinging to her like a barnacle, beard tickling her collarbone and right arm resting on her stomach. She’s too-warm but, as usual, she hasn’t the heart to move him. The linens are tilted dangerously askew, half-spilling over the edge of the bed, but everything is _ covered_, gratefully. His hair is in her mouth, and she reaches up with the arm he isn’t pinning down to try and swat it out of her face.

They also would have seen the rather impressive disarray of the rest of the space, thanks to Jaime’s theatrical item throwing. Every pillow, except the one under her head, is gone, decorative or functional, and the contents of the desk are still on the floor, parchment fluttering feebly in the breeze coming from the window. Their clothes are strewn in a random assortment of places. Her poor, abused cloak is still on the bed.

What did the person who brought the tray of food even _ think _ transpired in this room? _ It looks like we came to blows. _If Brienne was the one surveying the space, she’d think the parties involved wrestled dramatically, bumped into every hard surface, and then proceeded to rip each other’s clothes off and wreck the bed. 

Jaime stirs, like he can sense her overthinking. “Good morning, wife.”

“Someone brought breakfast.”

“And saw _ this_,” he gestures vaguely with his right arm, “The room tells the story better than I could.”

“And what story is that?”

“No one is going to think you lied back and prayed for a son.”

Brienne sighs and stares at the canopy, “Some scullery kitchen girl is telling everyone she passes that Lord and Lady Lannister demolished their room.”

“A testament to our enthusiasm, surely."

"Or your vendetta against decorative pillows."

Jaime turns over onto his stomach to face her, resting his chin on her shoulder. His expression is soft from sleep, and his hair would benefit from a brush run through it. Her fingers make an ineffectual substitute, but she tries regardless.

"If the ladies at court ask, I'll inform them that I was _ thoroughly _ bedded," he shuts his eyes and leans into her hand.

"_Please _ don't."

"Well, I suppose _ you'd _ be the one they ask."

Women _ do _ talk about this sort of thing; Brienne just never has. "I'll tell them that my lord husband was generous and lovely."

Jaime laughs, "Then I will say the same about my lady wife. Do you want that breakfast over there? Because _ I _want that breakfast over here."

Brienne moves to get the tray, but Jaime shakes his head. She wonders if he'll have trouble, but he holds one side with his left hand and rests the tray on his arm. Unlike her, he doesn't mind wandering around unclothed. If she looks at him too long, he'll tease her.

"Look, it's all in one piece, even." 

"The only intact thing in the room, and you kept it that way; you're improving."

She pulls the blanket up under her arms, her usual gesture, and Jaime laughs. "What's the point of that?" 

"Just eat your breakfast."

They put the tray between them and sit against the headboard. Jaime picks at items on the tray--whoever put the spread together wasn't thinking about a one-handed person eating it. She's watched him eat hundreds of meals to varying degrees of success, watched him teasingly ask for help, or _not_ ask out of frustration or pride. Spreading butter and jam on toast with no plates _or_ table is asking for a mess.

So, Brienne does it for him, smears a thick layer of jam, and hands it to him. "You never ask for things to be done in a way that would benefit you."

"I've you to feed me," he answers around a mouthful of bread. He's in a good mood, so it's the teasing.

"We're to sit before _ your _ bannermen, in _ your _ hall, and I'm to cut your food?" She loves him, fiercely, but Jaime doesn't always extrapolate a line of thought before he acts or speaks.

"Perhaps...not," he answers, "although, I'd enjoy it."

Brienne pours water from the pitcher and butters a piece of toast for herself, "I don't doubt that."

Jaime eats in silence for a moment; he doesn’t need to ask for her to prepare another piece and hand it to him. “Thank you.”

“It’s just toast,” she shrugs.

“Not just for the bread,” he starts, “And maybe it’s _ marital duty _ now, but before, even...you’ve been looking out for me since we met, since before I even realized you were doing so. I’ve made a hundred bad choices, and you’re _ here_, and you’re helping me right them.”

“I want to help you; it makes me happy.”

“You’re _ outstanding_,” he tilts to the side, rests his temple against her shoulder, “I’ve never met another soul who’d suffer my pathetic left-handed swordplay until I didn’t feel like a ghost of myself, who’d cut my food and help me re-learn so many tasks I took for granted. You even weathered my terrible seduction tactics, and then you _ held _ me.”

“Jaime--”

“And then you fucking _ married _ me.”

“Don’t think you’ve given me nothing in return,” she smiles, although Jaime probably can’t see it from his angle. “I’ll put butter and jam on your toast every morning, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, if you're reading this, you made it through! Aaaaah only one chapter left! I am gonna cry.
> 
> Who wants a pegging at Casterly Rock sequel? If even one person asks...


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, THIS IS IT. 😭😭😭😭😭😭
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's read this! I'm in awe that this has 11,000 page views, and that so many people were excited for me to post each chapter. It's been a honor and a pleasure to share my writing with you, and read all your lovely comments.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the last chapter!

Littlefinger is dragged from the black cells and executed for treason--Jaime doesn’t attend because he could be doing _ anything _better with his time than giving Petyr Baelish one last scrap of attention. Illyn Payne swings the sword, apparently, and the onlookers cheer. 

Jaime’s never _ quite _ understood why the smallfolk love a good public execution.

After that, there’s a number of brothels without an owner in King’s Landing. The biggest change, though, is the vacancy of the position of Master of Coin on the Small Council.

“Father’s putting his name in _ that _ hat,” Tyrion tells him, “And who better? He’s the paragon house Lannister, who rescued us from our grandfather’s financial ruin.”

“He _ is _good with money,” Jaime agrees. And he’s even better at controlling people with it than he is at making it.

“The crown is up to its eyes in debt to the Lannister coffers anyway; he might as well pay himself back, and maybe he can stop Robert from whoring and drinking all the money away.”

Jaime _ doesn’t _ask how much Lannister gold Tyrion has burned through in similar pursuits.

* * *

King Robert begrudgingly makes Tywin Lannister the Master of Coin.

Ned, who was there when Robert made the decision, tells Jaime and Brienne that he said, “I get rid of one fucking Lannister, and end up saddled with the _ worst _ of them.”

“I’m happy with the trade,” Jaime tells both of them.

With his father accepting the position, Casterly Rock passes to Jaime properly, and he immediately feels the yoke of responsibility. 

“You’ll depart immediately with Tommen and Lady Brienne,” his father tells him a few days after accepting the position on the Small Council. “The Lord of Casterly Rock should _ be _there.”

And, _ maybe_, Jaime’s a bit drunk on the power his new station affords him, but he looks his father dead in the eye and says, “No.”

A vein twitches near Tywin’s eye, and he’s clenching his jaw--Jaime’s loved causing this expression on his father’s face ever since the wedding. It makes him, recklessly, want to tell Tywin a dozen things that would horrify him. 

“_No_?” he repeats.

“Brienne doesn’t want to leave her pages until the term is over. Casterly Rock isn’t going to slide into the sea if the _ right _ Lannister isn’t present at all times.”

“You’re the _ lord_,” Twyin answers. “Do her wants supercede yours? Do they supercede your _ duty_? She’s the lady of Casterly Rock, whatever silly business you _ think _you pulled during the ceremony by letting her keep her cloak and her name.”

_ Silly business. _ That _ is _ what Tywin Lannister would think of such a thing.

“It was one of Brienne’s conditions when she agreed to wed.” 

His father looks at him critically, “Your bannermen will think you are weak if you abase yourself in front of your wife. Take her to Casterly Rock and make her give you a son.”

Brienne steeps and drinks the moon tea nearly every morning--Jaime watches her, and they have yet to talk about when, and _ if_, she will cease. Jaime assumes that Brienne will tell him her thoughts, but perhaps not.

“We’ll do _ that _ on our own time, too.”

“It’s your duty.”

_ I never want to hear that fucking word again_.

“You _ never _ have any idea what you’re talking about.” Once Jaime starts, it’s like pulling a cork out of a bottle--everything he never said to his father comes pouring out. “You don’t know Brienne, you don’t know _ me_. You _ definitely _ don’t know Tyrion _ or _ Cersei. Your only concern is what use we can be to you.”

“You’re my children; it’s my right, for all the good any of you have brought me.”

If he doesn’t stop himself, Jaime is going to spill secrets his father doesn’t need to know, just to prove how blind Tywin really is. Even imagining the expression on his face is satisfying. He feels _ nothing _ at the disappointment in his father’s tone.

“Brienne and I will decide when to leave, and if you disapprove of that, or anything else, you can send a raven with your complaints.”

“Fine. Leave now, or in three months, it matters not--regardless, you _ must _ have an heir.”

Jaime stands from the chair across from his father’s desk, “If I meet an untimely demise, Tyrion will do a better job playing the role of your heir than I _ ever _will.”

If his father intends to speak, Jaime’s out the door before he has a chance.

* * *

When Brienne spoke to Lord Tywin, "You'll be a Lannister," was the last thing he said to her before leaving his study. It wasn't a threat, or a command, yet somehow it was both.

Brienne reflects on their conversation more than she wishes to. Jaime _ isn’t _ just Jaime--he comes with his house; in the eyes of the gods, and more importantly, _ men_, she is a Lannister. If Jaime is lord of Casterly Rock, then she is the lady. She can be a knight and wield a sword, but it does diminish the fact. She was a lady _ before _she wed, and she remains one now. 

She’s comforted, for the first two weeks, that very little in her life has changed--she trains with Jaime, although they walk further to get there and can go _ together_. Podrick and Arya are there, and she’s still Ser Brienne to them, and it tricks her into thinking bigger changes _ aren’t _ coming. The first time someone calls her _ Lady Lannister_, she ignores them because it doesn’t even register as _ her_.

“Jaime,” she says one morning, passing him a piece of toast with jam. It’s appeared every morning at breakfast since their wedding, and he smiles at her when she passes it across the table. It’s a strange thing to be sentimental about, but that’s just Jaime.

“Yes?”

"At Casterly Rock, how should I _ be_?" She knows Jaime will take her meaning.

“As you are here,” he answers with no hesitation.

“I don’t mean in private,” Brienne knows she’s scowling, “Others’ opinions of _ me _ will impact you, and don’t say they won’t.”

Jaime takes a bite of toast, and smiles at her, ”If you think I'm being foolish, or that there's a better course of action, speak up. Alone, or in front of _ anyone_. You have power, and not just when people _ can't _ see it. You don't diminish me by being yourself.”

“I had a fear,” she tells him, “since I was a little girl, of being made _ lesser _ by being attached to someone.”

“I told Lord Selwyn I’d never make your decisions for you. I told my father the same yesterday when he said we should make for Casterly Rock posthaste.”

“I’m sure Lord Tywin _ loved _ that.”

“He said the same thing you did, about ‘looking strong in front of my bannermen.’”

Brienne winces at being in agreement about _ anything _with Tywin Lannister. “I doubt your lord father was talking about me buttering your toast.”

“No,” Jaime agrees, “nothing so mundane; although, it speaks to his opinion on larger issues. He liked it even less when I told him to fuck off.”

“Did you say _ exactly _that?”

“No,” Jaime’s wearing a self-satisfied grin that has become frequent lately, “but I _ did _ tell him I’d make Tyrion my heir.”

_ Oh no_, is all she can think.

“I know you never wanted this for yourself, but you’ll be _ good_.”

"I'm not certain the quality of my rule means much compared to the necessity of it," Jaime looks thoughtful, "But it will be heartening, I think, to be of use."

"You're of use now."

"I'm not, though. I've spent a lot of time at standing outside doors protecting people who are doing things that disgust me."

"A lord can do good." She thinks of Tarth. "My father does."

Jaime puts his right elbow on the table spread with their breakfast and stares at the stump. He doesn’t hide it quite like he used to, but Brienne can’t think of a time where he fixed his gaze on it quite so pointedly.

“This was _ awful_,” he says, “pain like I didn’t know existed, and the crushing purposelessness that followed.”

“You weathered it bravely. Maybe a lord has less need for a sword, but you _ can _ wield one."

"The highest of compliments from someone as skilled as you," he drops his arm back into his lap. "Losing my swordhand gained me some things." 

Surely protecting his children is part of it, and maybe even a renewed sense of purpose. Selfishly, Brienne wants to be part of what Jaime considers his boon.

"Brienne, I can _ hear _ you thinking," Jaime stands and rounds the table, "You're wondering if you’re part of the gains.”

“I’d be well pleased, if I was,” she admits.

“Well pleased, wench?” Jaime parrots, smiling down at her, “That’s _ all_?’

“_Elated_.”

“I wouldn’t change _ anything_,” he holds out his hand, and Brienne takes it, “if it meant I wouldn’t end up in this exact moment.”

* * *

Jaime formally introduces Brienne to Myrcella and Tommen.

Tommen looks at her, wide-eyed, and shouts, “You’re a _ knight _! I want to be a knight.”

Myrcella curtsies and says, “Uncle Jaime talks about you _ constantly_. I’ve been thinking for _ months _ that you should be wed.” 

Brienne gives him a _ look_, and he scratches his beard and turns his gaze upward, “It wasn’t _ that _ much, was it?”

Both Tommen and Myrcella answer, in unison, “_Yes_.”

“They’ve spoken their peace,” Brienne laughs, “And look at their faces--they’d never lie.”

They spend several afternoons with Myrcella and Tommen, after that. Sometimes, they run around the Red Keep, and sometimes they go out into the city, escorted by more guards than Jaime likes. His niece and nephew, his _ children_, warm to Brienne immediately. After an hour, Myrcella is talking about Sunspear and all the things she’s going to eat in Dorne, and Tommen is talking fervently about jousting and that he wants to show Brienne his horse and his armor.

“I’ll come visit you at Casterly Rock,” Myrcella tells all three of them.

“And we’ll come visit you in Dorne,” Brienne picks up the conversation.

Tommen is clutching Myrcella’s hand and Jaime wishes, _ desperately_, that he had more power--he could take both of them with him, then. He could keep them together, _ here_. He could undo Cersei’s influence. No, all he can do is rip their name from them and make sure they’re as far away from King’s Landing as possible when the time comes.

These afternoons are Jaime’s window in their lives--scraps cobbled together that he tries to memorize before they end. Tommen calls Brienne _ aunt_, and squeals happily when she puts him on her shoulders. He can’t even _ lift _Tommen one-handed, let alone carry him around.

“Are you going to tell them?” Brienne asks when they’re both out of earshot.

“Eventually,” he takes a deep breath, “Not here, though. I suppose Tommen will be the first to know. They shouldn’t learn about it from someone else.”

“I agree.”

“Tommen’s quite taken with you.” Jaime isn’t sure if he should tell her how watching her with Tommen makes him feel--it’s the same ache that comes with watching her with Podrick. “It’s good, since he’s joining us at Casterly Rock.”

“They’re both endearing,” Brienne smiles at the sight of them watching fish swim in a fountain. Tommen wants to hold one, and Myrcella is telling him no.

“I don’t know where they got their personalities.”

“I think I do.”

Jaime turns to her, “_Me_?”

“Of course.”

* * *

On the day Lord Stark and Sansa are set to ride north to Winterfell, Sansa embraces Arya so tightly that the younger girl starts struggling like a cat that doesn't want to be held.

“You’re an awful brat,” Sansa whispers, “but you’re my little sister, so be _ safe_.”

“I can protect myself,” Arya replies, but she stops fighting to get away from Sansa. “Tease Bran and Rickon _ twice _ as hard for me.”

Sansa giggles, and Arya follows suit.

Lord Stark is watching them. “Arya will be fine here,” he says to Brienne, “although I wish you were staying to instruct her longer.”

“I’ll miss her,” Brienne answers. She’ll miss _ all _of them. It’s not bad, though, to realize she’ll miss King’s Landing.

“You’re always welcome at Casterly Rock,” Jaime’s smirk indicates he made the offer only to see what Lord Stark would say. “My lord father is tethered to the capital by his position on the Small Council, so the place will be downright friendly.”

Brienne looks between the two of them, still not _ quite _ understanding their relationship. They’re not friends, but they both seem to be _ trying _ to establish some sort of rapport.

“When was the last time a Stark visited Casterly Rock?” Ned asks.

“Never, that I know of,” Jaime answers, “but you can be confident no one will slit your throat in your sleep, should you visit.”

“Is that the extent of Lannister hospitality?”

“More like a new baseline I’m attempting to establish.”

Both Jaime _ and _ Lord Stark laugh. 

"I've been away from Cat twice as long as I'd intended. If I don't ride north soon, she'll leave me out of anger and return to Riverrun. Or come here and fetch me."

"Ah," Jaime answers, "another man who's a slave to the happiness of his lady wife."

"It's not so bad."

Is _ that _what they're going to bond over?

"That's _ not _ how--" she tries to defend herself, although she's not sure from _ what_, but Jaime kisses her to cut her off. 

"It's a jest. Calm down."

Lord Stark laughs, "I have two young sons who will need matched eventually; perhaps you'll have daughters and we can build a bridge between our houses."

Jaime looks at Lord Stark as though trying to judge his seriousness. "If one of your sons is willing to live on Tarth, mayhaps."

Brienne watches Arya and Sansa whispering to each other. Even if Jaime and Lord Stark are jesting, they're matching off children Brienne can't even conceptualize as _ existing _ yet. 

Arya comes up to her, "When _ you _ go, I'll keep Pod from accidentally killing himself with a practice sword. He told me you mean to send for him as your squire." 

"Thank you, Lady Arya."

She wrinkles her nose, "Will people do that less when it's _ ser_?"

Brienne shakes her head, "No, they'll look at you in disbelief, but it's quite fun to correct them."

"I'll be the _ second _ lady knight."

* * *

Brienne’s father stays for the summer, and she watches with extreme amusement as Jaime tries to ingratiate himself to Selwyn. Jaime is earnest about it, too, in a way Brienne doesn’t often see him be with other people. She can see him, easily, earning the loyalty of his bannermen, and not just because they fear him. She thinks of the loyalty her father inspires, simply by being _ fair _ and forthright. Every able man on Tarth would take up arms and march into battle for Lord Selwyn.

Not that Jaime needs to impress her father; he’d told her, privately, that he thought she’d chosen well for herself.

“He’s a good man,” her father whispers when Jaime is out of earshot, “Devoted, too; he talks about you _ constantly_.”

“He just likes embarrassing me.”

Mostly, Jaime talks to her father about how to run Casterly Rock, and listens with such rapt attention that Brienne thinks he’d take notes if he was quick enough with left-handed penmanship to manage. 

“I can’t imagine your education was lacking as the eldest son of Tywin Lannister,” her father says.

“Oh, it wasn’t,” Jaime answers, “I just wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t pertain to holding a sword.”

“I’ve a daughter like that,” Selwyn answers.

“I _ think _ I’ve met her.”

Both and both he and Jaime turn Brienne, who furrows her brow.

“It’s _ boring_,” she admits, “Useful, certainly, but what child wants to learn about managing crop yields and collecting taxes?”

“Tyrion never minded; he was always interested in book learning.”

Selwyn laughs, “Brienne would run away from her tutors, change into breeches, and I’d find her, hours later, covered in dirt, and beating some poor fisherman’s son with a stick.”

“Giving Father the slip was never that easy,” Jaime answers, “I find myself wishing I’d listened more to the duller points, though. And I will _ never _ seek his counsel now.”

“Tarth is _ nothing _ compared to the Westerlands, but my advice is the same: find people you can rely on. I’m not worried about Tarth in my absence--the castellan, the maesters, my bannermen, they will manage because I trust them to do their jobs.”

Jaime looks thoughtful, and Brienne know he’s thinking of Tywin Lannister’s iron grip; she’s thinking of it, too. 

“_Not _ the advice my father would give, which means I should heed it.”

Brienne’s content, then to sit and watch them talk, to welcome Jaime into her family, small though it is. Her heart aches at how much further she’ll be from Tarth at Casterly Rock. It could be _ years _ before she sees him again.

When she tells her father this, he wraps his arms around her and whispers, “When I receive a raven that tells of a grandchild, I will come to you.”

* * *

Podrick follows Brienne around like a second shadow in the weeks leading up to their departure.

Jaime half expects to wake up in the middle of the night and find the lad in their bed between them, so much is the time Podrick spends trailing behind her. The image borders on the absurd, but Brienne would probably pat Podrick on the head and tuck him in.

As usual, Podrick makes up for his modest skill with a blade with diligence, and he seems to be trying to improve as much as he can before Brienne and Jaime depart from Casterly Rock. 

“Pod, are you attempting to complete an entire knighthood’s worth of training by summer’s end?” Jaime asks one morning while Podrick is beating on a practice dummy. He’s usually so mild-mannered, but there’s something hard in his expression today.

“I’m still the worst,” Podrick answers, “Ser Brienne won’t rank us, but I _ know _it’s me.”

“You’ve plenty of time to improve.”

“I _ don’t_,” Podrick whispers, “if Ser Brienne doesn’t think I’ve potential before she leaves--”

Jaime puts a hand on Podrick’s shoulder, halting his strikes, “You’re worried she won’t send for you if she thinks you’re not good enough?”

Podrick won’t look at him, only scuffs his boots in the dirt, which is answer enough.

“Has Ser Brienne talked about our time on Tarth?”

“N-not really, ser.”

Jaime tells him a shortened version. “She made me hold a practice sword _ just _ like that one, in my left hand. I was _ terrible_, much worse than you are now.”

“Ser Brienne beat you?”

“_Every _ day for weeks. I felt like I’d lost my entire life, but she wouldn’t let me give up.”

Podrick looks up at him, “She _ still _ beats you, ser.” For all his quietness, when he does speak, he is strangely frank.

“She beat me half the time when I had _ two _ hands; I’ll never beat her again.”

“Does that...make you sad?”

Jaime’s grinning, now, “No, Pod, it doesn’t. I don’t need to best her to bask in her glory--standing next to her is enough. I know you feel the same.”

Podrick and he are nothing alike, but united in their supreme appreciation for Brienne of Tarth. The lad was a kindred spirit in that, if nothing else. Brienne had put her good faith into both of them, and they knew it.

“Ser Brienne is the first person to ever--” Podrick falters, looking back at his boots.

“Believe in you?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Remember it,” Jaime advises, “Keep practicing--she’ll send for you, and you’ll be her squire regardless.”

“You won’t mind me coming to Casterly Rock, ser?”

“You’re welcome at Casterly Rock for as long as you like.” The boy could live there for the rest of his life, if he desired. In a few years, Jaime could even find a noble girl for him to wed. “Besides, Pod, who’s going to help me run my Brienne appreciation society? I can’t helm it alone.”

Podrick nods, but he’s blushing while he does it.

* * *

Myrcella sails for Dorne a week before they intend to leave for Casterly Rock. Ser Arys is to accompany her, along with a retinue befitting a princess. Jaime watches as the ship is loaded, and tries to reckon with the decision of sending her to Dorne in the first place. He made a hard choice, one that others dislike, and he has to stay steadfast in the face of that.

Cersei comes to the harbor and looks like the only thing keeping her from crying is her pride. She holds herself together, though, hugging Myrcella tightly and pressing a kiss into her hair. To Jaime’s surprise, Myrcella embraces him, too.

“Uncle,” she says, “I’ll miss you.”

“Be good,” he answers--there’s many things to tell her, but not this day.

Tommen sobs, too, and Joffrey mocks him for it.

When the ship leaves the dock, he stands next to Cersei, and they watch it shrink as it moves to the horizon, taking their daughter with it.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime tells Cersei after a moment. It’s not a lie--he’d make the choice again, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t mourn that he had to.

“You’re not,” Cersei answers, “or you wouldn’t have done it.”

Jaime looks at his sister, then--she looks both resplendent and sad in equal measure. “If you’ve had enough of this, and your pride will allow it, come home. Father can’t stop you.”

Nothing in Cersei’s life is of her own choosing, and Jaime understands. She walks away without responding, and he lets her go.

Jaime stares at the point where sky and water meet long after the ship is gone from view.

He’s to be Tommen’s guardian--not a _ father _ but more than an uncle. The enormity of it paralyzes him. Tommen will grow into a man shaped by _ his _ influence, and what kind of influence is Jaime Lannister, anyway? He’d wish for Tommen to be everything he _ isn’t_, or at least not to take so many detours to become what he’s _ trying _ to be. Brienne would be a much, _ much _ better person to emulate.

Jaime, goes, then, to find Brienne because she’ll _ understand_. Brienne says his name when he enters their room, and walks to meet him.

“Well, the ship has sailed.’

“I’m sorry,” she answers, placing a hand on his shoulder, “It’s not forever, and she’ll be _ safe_.”

“Tommen will be my ward, but I haven’t the faintest idea of _ how_. I know that he’s--” Jaime doesn’t need to fill in the rest. It’s one thing, for Brienne to accept Tommen accompanying them; it’s another to ask her to _ help_. “Will you assist me?”

“I will,” she answers, “Did you think I was going to pretend the boy didn’t exist for the rest of his life?”

“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean you’re required to play an active role.”

“I’m not sure I know any better than you; I’ve no experience with children.”

“You’re good with the pages, especially Pod.”

Brienne gives him a small, sheepish smile, “That’s not the same as being a mother, or even an aunt.”

“You’d make a _ wonderful _ mother,” he blurts. The thought crossed his mind _ so_, so many times since he’d first watched her with Podrick. He thinks about it every time Brienne drinks moon tea; he thinks about it when she chases Tommen around the Keep.

She’s blushing, now, “I don’t know what it’s like to have a mother.”

“Me either, but I can just _ tell_.”

“...Will Tommen inherit Casterly Rock?”

“If I can manage it, yes.” The irony of his children being technically bastards while being purely Lannisters isn’t lost on Jaime. They’ll need legitimized, all three of them, and Jaime will deal with that day when it comes.

“Then,” Brienne starts, slowly, smiling, “we’ll need an heir for Tarth.”

Suddenly, Jaime’s grinning so hard he feels like his face will split in two, “What if she wants to be a knight?” 

“Then she will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that this is complete, I'm going to start posting my Victorian Gothic ghost story AU for Halloween tomorrow! 
> 
> I'd LOVE to keep talking to all of you who've commented throughout this, so follow me on tumblr @ https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/


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